Empire
by Waveripple of Team Sunrise
Summary: Fed up with America, Britain heads to the past to tell himself to be harder on the colony to prevent his revolt but reconsiders thanks to a squirrel. Through a mishap in the timestream, Britain ends up in a parallel world where British Empire rules over half the Earth & is at war with the rest. Full Summery inside. R
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Empire**

**Rating: T for swearing, gore, abuse, rape, and other older teen subjects.**

**Full Summery:Annoyed with America's misbehavior, Britain heads to the past to tell his old self to be harder on the colony to prevent revolt, but he reconsiders thanks to a squirrel. Through an mishap in the timestream, Britain ends up in a parallel world where the British Empire rules over half of the Earth and is at war for the rest. Now switched with British Empire himself, Britain will learn what awful and cruel things did British Empire have to do to maintain his power and hold over the globe.**

**Shipping: Not really a romantic story, but a little bit USUK, I guess, with tones of GerIta, HREXItaly, some one-sided ones, and other minor ones that I'm not going to write here.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing in any of the chapters of this fanfiction save for places, people, events, etc I make up, therefore meaning that all Hetalia characters are not mine, and all historical references to people and events are hereby within used fictitious.**

Britain's eyebrows twitched, greatly resembling two hairy caterpillars climbing on his forehead. That bloody wanker was at it again. Trying to convince the other countries he had a fix for their problems when he couldn't handle his own.

Presently, America was instructing France on how to hold on to his democracy after the 'horror,' as America so bluntly called it, of gaining a socialist boss. France laughed the younger nation off, saying he had much more experience than America thought. America stated he wasn't so sure.

Had Britain actually raised this kid? The Briton shut his eyes. He could see America when he was just a little kid, back when the wanker was the, then better-named, Thirteen Colonies of British America. He was so cute back then, and minded his Ps-and-Qs like a young gentleman, for the most part.

"Where did I go wrong?" Britain muttered. Maybe if he hadn't left him so often, or if Britain hadn't—

"Hey, Iggy, you look like you're gonna puke. Some of your scones coming back up?"

Britain open his eyes. America's nose was inches from the Briton's—much too close!

"Bloody Hell!" The older country jerked away. His chair fell back, taking the Brit with it. A few of the other nations burst out laughing, and some stood to help, but Britain slapped the hands away.

America smirked, his arms crossed, then threw his head back, laughing. "Nice one, Iggy! A Battle of the Light Brigade _fail_!" The laughter died out. Britain turned his chair back right-side-up and slipped back in it.

"Well, now that's over," the American grinned, "someone else can talk." Britain—and most of the rest of the world—look at the nation in shock. America didn't just up and give up the floor.

The nation plopped down next to Britain. He pulled a burger out of his coat and proceeded to chow down. Bits of bun and cooked pink slime fell on the tabletop, and on Britain's papers. The nations winced and whipped the meat off onto the floor. Greasy marks appeared on the paper where the remains of patty once were.

Hesitantly, China took the floor and started talking.

America leaded over and hissed in Britain's ear, "Hey, dude."

"Don't talk while others are speaking, git!" The older country growled. Not that his reprimanding did anything. His voice lost its authority long ago. The Brit swallowed the bile and heartbreak that threaten to well up at the thought of _that _awful time.

"I'ff feen thinkin'," America said through a mouthful of burger, "Ya know 'ow y're hostin' the Olymffics?"

"The Olympics? Yes…?" Britain murmured hesitantly; he didn't like where this was heading.

"Well, I wanna know wha ya 'ot p'anned for the Openin' Ceremonies," America smiled, bits of burger in his teeth. Britain blinked. He actually wanted to know about the Opening Ceremonies? That was…surprisingly nice of him. The Brit smiled and opened his mouth only to be cut off.

"'Cause I hav s'ideas!"

Happy moment…over.

America swallowed the last of the burger, "Fireworks, bands of red, white, and blue—your flag, right?"

_It was _your_ flag once, too._ Britain thought bitterly.

"And stars, a universal symbol!"

_Red, white, blue, stars—_

"You bloody git!" Britain yelled, interrupting China. The European nation jumped to his feet. His hands balled into fits. "That's what's on your flag, America! How did you become so conceited?!"

"So asks the guy who raised me," America laughed. The other nations stared at the two. It wasn't an unusual sight, a fight, but the Briton typically only completely lost his gentlemanly demeanor with France. He tended to at least try to still be a good role model, even when handling America.

"I never raised any one of my charges to be so self-absorbed and loud!" The Briton slammed his hand on the table. The sound resonated around the room.

"Yeah, you raised them to be quiet, no-talkers like Canadia," America's blue eyes glanced at his brother. The other blond had a sad look on his face, holding his bear tighter to his chest. The other North American country stared hard at the floor. Noticing this, France patted the country's back and sent a glare to America.

"Why you—I should not have tried and just left you to France! Maybe he has a higher tolerance for destructive, little children!" Britain spat.

"Are you still pissed about your stupid bottle-boat thing?" America was on his feet now, looking down into the shorter country's eyes.

"It's called a 'ship-in-a-bottle,' stupid git! And among other things, yes! That is exactly what I'm talking about!"

"How many times do I have to tell you? It was a stupid squirrel that broke it—not me!"

"How many time must I tell _you_, that's a load of bullshit!" Britain gritted his teeth and spun on his heels. "I'm leaving. Have fun, you ungrateful, boastful, foolish, _rebellious,_ child." Britain said the finally adjective with such venom than some of the observing countries took a step back or clung to another, stronger, country.

The Brit had just gotten to the door when America shouted.

Britain paused, praying silently for the nation to whisper an apology.

America's voice and stare were icy. "Don't think I've _ever _regretted the Revolution, Britain."

******Hetalia******

Britain swore and spat, kicking rocks, tin cans, trash bins and just about any thing else, living or not, that crossed his path. That stupid, stupid, stupid American! After everything Britain had done for him, he goes and says something like that!

_Ama~zing~ grace~, how swee~t the sound, that sa~ve a wre—_

Britain took his phone from his pocket: a call from France. He gritted his teeth. The call when to voicemail. The Brit shut down the phone and shoved it into his pocket.

A small voice said, "Oh, England…? You looks flustered. Is everything alright?" The nation looked to his left. Flapping on tiny wings was the aptly named Flying Mint Bunny. Tinkerbelle and Captain Hook appeared, each looking worried.

"Aye, what be the matter, England?" The pirate captain asked.

"Today was the World Conference, remember?" Tink frowned, landing on the Captain's shoulder. "That should explain everything." Flying Mint Bunny placed her paws over her mouth. Hook sighed.

The nation looked at his magical friends. A small smile played on his lips. They always understood. True friends—unlike that America. The flame of rage flared up. Britain punched a building, aggravated. He stormed off. Hook, Tink, and Flying Mint Bunny exchanged looks and followed him.

"England, what happened?" Tink fluttered in front of the Brit's face. Her little hands on her hips. "Tell us."

Britain grumbled, "America happened." He ducked under the fairy and continued walking.

"Oh, aye, aye, America." The Captain said. "I know, England! Let's go on me ship, eh? I've got rum, lots and lots of rum looted from some wannabe Cuban pirates. Come on, rum and ice cream." Hook reached into his coat and pulled out a bottle, holding it out. Britain stared at the rum.

Mint Bunny did a mid-air back flip. "It'll be like the old times!"

Britain flinched then whispered, "If it were like old times, I could just sail to America's home and know he would be at the docks crying and apologizing for the awful things he said." Tinkerbelle sent Flying Mint a glare and slapped her behind the ears.

Tink and Hook exchanged looks and decided it best to leave England be.

Crestfallen, the country slowly walked back to his hotel. He sulked up the steps, went to his room, unlocked the door, staggered to the bed, and fell into the covers face first. Half of him hoped the fluffy French duvet would smother him.

This was all America's fault. How great the younger nation could have been if only he'd stayed with Britain. The Fifty States of British America, or the Fifty British Colonies of America…either would have been nice. But _no_! He just had to revolt like that! And that wanker didn't even fight the revolt properly!

Instead of two armies shooting until one was completely dead or surrendered, that git attacked from the trees and hilltops. A barbaric fighting style! Not even in a proper battlefield!

Stupid, stupid, stupid git. Stupid, stupid, stupid…America.

Images of America as a child flooded Britain's mind. That cute little smile when Britain gave him a set of toy soldiers. The look of worry America wore when he consoled Britain after France offered the child gourmet food and Britain had nothing. The laughing face as America joyfully swung a bison 'round and 'round.

Britain chocked on a sob. It wasn't fair! What had he done to deserve it? Impose a few taxes was all, maybe closed off a harbor or two. If America had just waited it out, it would have gotten better, the Briton was sure.

Maybe if he had been harder on his colony…

But America had been his favorite charge. Britain had always paid special attention to him.

Sure, Britain cared dearly for Canada and Australia, but not like he did for America. He shipped prisoners and madmen to Australia, which explains why he carries that creepy koala around. Those people always keep the Aussie on his toes, preoccupying him too much for Britain to worry about a revolt. And Britain never had to worry much about Canada. The Canadian was so passive aggressive and quiet.

All that happened to America, though, were those crazy puritans living there. Sure they were completely bonkers and wanted to break away from the Church of England, but they weren't murders and criminals. They weren't a punishment or attempt at control.

They were just people in black clothing.

Britain pushed himself up into sitting position, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. He heaved himself out of the bed and headed towards his suit case. Flying Mint Bunny landed on the drawers.

"E-England?" She asked timidly. "What are you doing?"

The nation unbuckled the suit case. He muttered a few ancient words under his breath then opened the top. Instead of shirts, pants, boxers, and nightwear, a set of stairs was in the suit case.

Flying Mint Bunny swallowed, as Britain stepped down the stairs. She asked her question again. Britain didn't speak.

Flying Mint followed Britain down the winding stairs to a small, stone enclosed room. The walls of the room were lined with old books whose leather binding were discolored and torn in places. A small desk was the only thing to irrupt the bookshelves. A square of seemingly cut out from the wooden shelves held the desk with the candles that help light the room.

Flying Mint landed on the desk. Her gaze followed Britain as he wandered around the room, looking at the faded titles on the spines of the books. The Brit grabbed a book and headed to the desk.

The bunny's stomach twisted. She repeated her question once more.

This time, the Brit responded. "I'm going to fix the world's biggest problem."

******Hetalia!******

Britain skimmed through the book until he found the desired spell. Flying Mint Bunny fluttered over the book. Her jaw fell open at the sight of the spell. Britain couldn't truly be thinking of doing that?

"England, you can't be serious about this! You're overreacting." Flying Mint attacked the Brits head, griping his hair. "You can't go back in time and kill America! You can't! Think how badly that will effect the present!" Britain grabbed the bunny and set her down.

"I'm not going to kill him, Flying Mint." Britain assured. "I…just want to see him. I want to see America as a child again, just for a few moments, that's all." The look of nostalgia in his green eyes comforted Mint Bunny.

"I-I see." She smiled. "Yeah, that might do you some good. America's not a completely horrible person. I mean, he hasn't changed too much since he was a kid, personality wise."

Britain nodded, searching around the desk drawers for the items needed for the spell. Each drawer opened to a different storage area in Britain's house: herbs in this drawer, pickled and dried animals in this one, kitchen utensils, flour, and toilet paper in that one.

After the items were lied out on the desk, Britain hauled a large, iron pot from under the desk. He read over the spell once more, then nodded. He'd never used magic involving time travel before, placing curses and summonings, sure, but not time travel. That was something Britain could recall clearly his mother lecturing him on the dangers of.

"Okay. I can do this." He took a reassuring breath. Mint Bunny flew to the top book shelf and landed.

Britain started chanting the spelling, placing the items into the pot.

"_Time is Past. Time is Future._

_Time is Now. Time is Never."_

He poured in milk from a three day dead cow and dropped in gears from a broken watch.

"_Time is Past. Time is Future._

_Time is Now. Time is Never."_

Three coins from a lost traveler and pollen from a weeping willow.

"_Time is Past. Time is Future._

_Time is Now. Time is Never."_

In goes red wine made from white grapes and a dried Madagascar singing lizard.

"_Time is Past. Time is Future._

_Time is Now. Time is Never."_

One last item…Britain reached for it.

"_Time is Past. Time is Future._

_Time is Now. Time is Never._

_Let me visit a time of once Past. _

_Let me visit a time of once Future._

_Let me visit a time of once Now._

_Let me visit a time of once Never."_

The Brit opened his hand. The last item fluttered down. The strange, gold-and-silver colored liquid hungrily grabbed at the soft petals.

"_Let me experience the past, present, the future—the now, the never, and the forever."_

A tongue of gold licked up the last of the final item: dark blue forget-me-nots.

_**DUH-DUH-DUH! **_

***Cough, cough* Er, um. Right. Anyway, this idea has been rolling around my head for a while now. An alternative history, my first. So, Let's cross our fingers and pray this doesn't suck? ^^; heh-heh. And yes, I originally wrote this BEFORE the Olympics, I just haven't posted it, but I figured I'm 48 pages in, might as well post it. **

**Britain's little friends called him England, not Britain. My thought process on this is Britain was 'England' before he was the 'United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.' His friends are older than that, therefore they call him England. Also when ever I'm talking about Britain in the far past or as a child, he'll be called England too. Just thought I'd explain my thoughts…**

**R&R, please!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer, see Chapter 1**

**Chapter 2:**

The liquid bubbled in the pot; a marble effect of gold on silver, and silver in gold, laced the thick fluid. Constantly changing its pattern, bringing different veins of gold or silver from the bottom of the iron pot to the top, yet never bringing to light the solid ingredients dropped in.

Flying Mint Bunny scooted back, pressing her body against the stone wall. The gray stones seemed colder than normal, as if all the little heat in the room had been sucked out. She whimpered, covering her eyes with her ears.

The liquid boiled. Bubbles floated out from the gold and silver into the air. They lingered for a moment before drifting to the floor. Once it touched the ground, the bubble popped with a dull sound, not the normal, sharp "_Pop" _of a typical soap bubble, but a sickly "_Blop"_ noise. The popped bubbles did not splatter as normal bubbles would, but created a perfect circle on the ground.

Britain stepped back as the liquid moved from the pot to the ground via bubbles. The last bubble flowed listlessly over the rim of the pot and to the ground. The liquid shook and the little circle moved towards each other, forming a large circle.

Then a flash of light flared in the room, nearly blinding the nation. Britain blinked the spots of white from his vision. His mouth fell open in awe.

A clock face floated in front of him. The clock lacked any numbers of any kind, nor did it have marking at the quarter hours. Two large, black hands spun 'round and 'round, clockwise, counterclockwise.

Inscribed on the clock face was an inscription.

Britain read aloud. He paused for a moment; his Latin was surprisingly rusty from disuse. It a few tries, but he translated it.

"If your task is going back,

To change a deed,

To right a wrong,

Do so with caution.

The wrong righted,

The deed changed

Could be one that

Lead to life or love

being made.

If the future is your goal,

To see if life gets born,

If the world gets torn,

Be wary.

For the knowledge gain

Maybe better off

Lost." (*)

The Brit pursed his lips. He vividly remembered his mother saying something to that effect once.

**FLASHBACK!**

"…and that's why you should be very, very carefully around Oberon." The woman spun around; her strawberry blonde hair whipped around with her. "Do you all understand?"

"Yup." Wales, Scotland, and Ireland chorused without looking at their mother. The former two practiced their sword fighting. Wales swung his wooden sword at his brother, who blocked it. Ireland clapped in amusement. It was so much fun watching them.

Britannia turned her gaze to her youngest child. England looked up at her with big green eyes. "Yes, Mother, but I don't see how that pertains to the learning of magic."

A rock sailed over and knocked the child in the head.

"Oi! Don't be such a teacher's pet, England." Scotland laughed. Wales nodded, reaching for another rock. Britannia had turned away at this point, digging through her bag.

"Yea, ya lil twerp. You're so weird like that." Wales threw the rock. This time, England dodged. Wales rolled his eyes and said, "Magic won't help us much other than doing chores we don't want to, stupid. There's no other reason we're here than that."

England bit down hard on his tongue to stop himself from swearing. "Oh shush it, you two. Magic may very well save one of us from total destruction for all you lot know."

Wales threw his hand back, read to hurl another stone when Scotland stopped him.

"Allow me," Scotland ran at his little brother with his sword poised to attack. England gasped, scrambling to dodge. The wooden sword splintered upon contact with the Earth. Ireland felt a pang of guilt well up but decided against acting on it.

England panted as Scotland turned the broken weapon over in his hand. Wales offered out his. Scotland reached for it. Just as he fingers brushed the hilt, Britannia let out a cry of triumph.

"Here we go," She turned towards the children, completely unconcerned over her youngest's wellbeing. "Scotland, hold out your hand." The little nation furrowed his brow but did as he was told. His mother leaned forward then paused.

"You're hands are too dirty and callused." Britannia sighed. "The rest of you, your hands, let me see." The other three children held up their hands. Their mother looked at Ireland and Wales' hand but shook her head. Both were too dirty, too rough.

Finally she looked at England's. Britannia let out a breath through her nose. His were dirty, too, and callused. Oh well, they'd have to do. The woman placed her fist over the child's little hands. She unfurled her fingers and a few small flowers settled in his palm.

England furrowed his brow and looked at them. "W-what are these, Mother?"

"Flowers." Ireland stated. "They're kinda pertty."

"'Kind of _pretty_,'" Britannia corrected. "Theses little flowers are called 'forget-me-nots.' They're a common flower, but very important in some spells—like the time travel spell."

"'Time travel'?" Ireland's eyes shone.

"I wanna travel through time! I wanna see what I'll be like in the future—probably some strong, brave empire or something." Scotland puffed out his chest.

"Hey, maybe we can go back and stop England from being born." Wales snickered.

"H-hey!" England winced. Why did his siblings hate him? Maybe he could go forward in time: maybe things were better then. Maybe he and Scotland got along. Maybe Wales and he went out hunting together. Maybe Ireland and he baked with each other.

Britannia's face went serious, and her voice went cold. "Now, the lot of you, listen very, _very _closely to what I'm about to say." She straightened up to her full height, looking more the ancient, powerful nation and less the aloof mother.

The Britannia Isles met each of the young nations in the eye before and while speaking. "Time travel is not game. If you go to the past and try to fix a mistake, it could ended up making the world you left behind a horrible place. All because you went back and changed one thing." Wales decided maybe it was better to drop the whole preventing England's birth thing.

"And going to the future to see how something will turn out, too. If you don't like it, you change it and you could make the world you want to live in a dystopia. And if you see something you do like, you take it for granted and might not strive for it." Scotland decided he would have to just wait until he became a powerful empire.

"Never use time travel unless in the most extreme conditions, understand me? And if you do, know this..." The woman's mossy green eyes flashed with wisdom. England swallowed; he was sure he saw sorrow in those eyes too.

"Know that, Time will always fix itself. Some events, some people, some ideas are going to somehow exist no matter what is done to the time stream. Events may not be started by the same people, ideas may not be thought of by the same person, but they will happen."

Wales steeled his courage and asked, "W-what about us, Mama? If someone went back in time and changed history, would we ever exist?"

The Britannia Isles leaned down, the motherly side of her personality showing through. She wrapped her arms around the children, pulling them into a hug. "As nations, we will always exist. The boarders maybe different and our personalities as well, but nations are some of people that will always be born. Time simply wouldn't allow anything else."

**FLASH FORWARD**

Britain shook himself out of his memories. Yes, he was doing the exact opposite of what his mother drilled into his head, but Britain couldn't take it anymore. It was _vital _he did this… for his own sanity as well as the world's.

The Brit held out his hand flat and addressed the clock. "Allow me access to the Time Stream!"

A groaning filled the room. Mint Bunny shuddered. The hands of the clock slowed then stopped completely. Even though the hands ceased in their movement, an eerie _tick, tick, tick, tick_ filled the room.

Then a voice came from the clock. It sounded tired, as if Britain had just woken the owner from a long nap. "You, human…nation, when and were do you want to go?"

Britain blinked. He…actually wasn't sure. He paused and licked his lips in though. Sometime in the 1700, that was a given…

"176...3." Britain nodded. "March 10th, 1763...Boston, Massachusetts." The Brit rattled off the address and time.

"Very…precise," The voice stated, lacking any emotion. "To be expected from a Nation. Very well." The room rocked and books fell from the shelves. Flying Mint Bunny let out a cry, gripping the wooden shelf tightly.

The clock face swung forwards as if on hinges. A portal of swirling gold and silver. "To come back, merely say you have no need to be in that time anymore and the sands of time will return you to the place you left from, nation."

Britain steeled himself and stepped forward into the portal.

******Hetalia!******

It felt like sand against his skin. It wasn't the hard, grainy sand, the kind that hurts when it runs over the skin, but the silky, paradise beach-like sand, smooth and cool. All at once, it stopped.

Britain blinked and looked around. He was in front of an colonial-style house, near the edge of an expansive forest. A wave of nostalgia slammed against Britain. He'd spent so much time together with America here. It was the home America lived in after Britain adopted him, seeing as the child lived out in the wilderness up until that point, and had originally been the empire's home.

Britain had stayed there every time he visited the little colony until…

The Brit shook his head feverously. He could feel the heartbreak tearing at him again. He took a shuddered breath to calm himself. No, he couldn't have a break down right there. He was better than that!

"_Ama~zing Grace~ How swee~t the sound_ _that sa~ved a wre~nch like me_~!"

The wind blew the familiar tune to the Brit's ears. His breath hitched in his throat, and he whipped his head towards the sound. Coming down the street, singing what was now Britain's ring tone, was none other than the British Empire, Britain during this time period.

The modern Britain gasped and darted for the side of the house. He couldn't let his past self seem him yet. It was too soon. He would need to talk to his past self, but not yet. A pang of guilt clenched the Briton's stomach. He'd lied to Flying Mint about seeing America.

That wasn't his plan at all. No, his plan was to take his past self aside and tell him to work harder with America, do whatever possible to him so he doesn't revolt, but not be too easy on him just because of all his colonies, America was Britain's favorite.

Britain reached up and put a hand on his chest, over his heart. He couldn't handle the heartbreak that came every time the Revolution was brought up or when America's birthday came around. It would be for the best. The world would be the same, or even better, right? America would be more of a gentleman, like Britain himself. The world would be infinitely better…

If he was so sure about this, when why was Britain's stomach twisting into knots?

"England! En—I mean, British Empire!"

The sound of America's voice came from the nearby window. The modern Britain pressed himself up against the wall.

"America, you can call me England. I really don't mind at all." Past Britain laughed aloud.

"Y-yeah, but I heard from some sailors about how much of the World you control. It's so much, calling you 'England' doesn't seem fit…." America trailed off. Modern Britain shut his eyes. He remembered this conversation. America was looking at his feet now, blushing.

Past Britain smiled and leaned down. He put his hands on the child's shoulders. "You may always call me England, even if I control the entire planet, got that?"

America grinned and nodded. "Okay! Thank you, England. You're the bestest!" The child hugged England around the neck, clinging to the empire.

"Alright, alright." England pushed the child to the ground. "I am, but 'bestest' is not a word, America."

The colony blinked. "It's not?" The empire shook his head about to speak when something clattered. England furrowed his brow and looked around. America clung to his leg.

"What was that, England? A ghost or a murderer—or the ghost of a murderer!" America's eyes welled with tears. "Oh goodness, a murderer's ghost is in my house! I know that human's can't kill us, but a ghost murderers sure can, can't they? I'm too young to die! Monster, monster!" England rolled his eyes.

"Or a Frenchman…" England grumbled, tearing the colony off his leg. "Reading horror stories again, are we? I'll go check it out, stay here." Britain knew the noise was really just a book falling from a table in the front room not a murderer ghost.

Britain took a steeling breath and peeked through the window. His past self headed out of the room, leaving America alone. The one-day superpower shook, wrapping his arms around himself and whimpered.

"It's okay, because England's here. He's an empire, after all. He can handle a murdering ghost. Yeah…" Somehow, the child didn't sound so sure. He shook his head feverously. "No. England is the bestest—err, best—big brother in the world."

Britain blinked, feeling touched. The Brit had told America not to call him his 'big brother.' The responsibility that accompanied the title was too great, even for an empire, and yet America called him that, just now.

The Briton wondered what America had thought to bring up that reaction but brushed it away. It did matter. Just enjoy the moment, as they say.

Something tugged at the nation's pant leg. Britain shook it without taking his eyes off the child. It tugged again; another leg shake.

America looked around nervously, probably trying to keep himself calm. He walked towards the bookcases.

_Is he really going to read another horror story _now?Britain wondered. Instead of a book, America grabbed a ship-in-a-bottle off the shelf. Britain gritted his teeth. He'd told that child _how many times _not to touch those? He could break them: them and all the work poured into them.

America turned the ship over in his hands. "I wanna ride on a ship like this one." The child smiled fondly, eyeing the British flag sails. "But…I think I'd change the sails. They'd have a star some where on them. Then England and I…and Canada and France, too…we could sail to the sky!" America abruptly lifted the bottle.

The thing tugged at the Brit's pants. Irked, he threw his leg out. The tugging stopped.

Britain winced: so this is how his ship-in-a-bottle broke. Just as he thought: America being foolish and reckless.

The colony lowered the ship. "Oh, right. I'd better put this back. England doesn't like me touching this stuff."

One last tug on Britain's leg. The nation looked down in time to see a squirrel scrambling up the fabric. He gasped and tumbled to the ground, slapping at the rodent.

The squirrel's eyes widen. It dove off of the Brit's leg. Britain looked up to see a fluffy tail go through the window. The nation jumped to his feet and followed the squirrel's path into the house with his eyes.

The squirrel bound for America, who had yet to notice the creature. In its shock, the squirrel jumped at the colony. It knocked the bottle out of his hands before running around the room once and exiting through the window, nearly crashing into Britain's face.

America had fallen to his knees holding the largest remaining part of the ship in his hands.

"O-oh no. E-England is going to yell at me." America tried fruitlessly to put the ship back together. "Oh no. Oh no. Oh no."

"What was that?" England's voice boomed.

Britain blinked and stared in shock. "It really was a bloody squirrel." America looked up. Britain swore inwardly and ducked down just as the colony turned his head.

_I can't believe the bloody idiot actually told the truth_. Britain winced inwardly. He'd yelled at America for it, yelled loudly. He remembered very well that America cried and ran out after that.

_Maybe I should go tell my past self about—_ Britain shook his head. No. He'd done enough. It was time to go.

The door inside the room burst open. "America, are you alright?"

Britain pursed his lips and crawled on the ground into some bushes, then pushed himself up and headed into the woods. All the anger and frustration Britain felt fizzled out. America was just fine as he was, as he would be. It was stupid of Britain to even think about changing the tactless nation, and besides his mother was right: he might not change things for the better.

The Brit smiled. "I have no need to be in this time anymore."

*******Hetalia!******

**D'aw, Britain cares**. **:3 **

**The original date I had for Britain to go back to was the 10****th**** of March, 1764, but that was too close to the Sugar Act—yeah, I didn't know what existed until I Googled it. But this date is a month or so after the end of the French and Indian War where France had to give up his land in the US. I don't think America was as old as I made him to be, though…=\ Eh, who really cares? In this time period, he's ten, so let's just roll with that.**

**Side note, I don't know the actually office name of Britannia, so yeah. Britannia Isles.**

**(*) I was going to use good old Google Translate, but when I put the Latin in to double check, it came out all wrong, so no long poem thingy in Latin. (You can check for yourself, if you'd like. Just stick the poem in and turn it to Latin then back to English.)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer, see Chapter 1**

**Chapter 3:**

The sand didn't feel smooth and cool this time. It felt rough with sharp edges and large grains, raking over his skin. He half expected to feel hot blood roll from his skin, but the feeling, fortunately, never came. Was going back in time, to events that already happened, easier than those of the future? Britain was beginning to think so.

Then a flash, blinding the Brit. He stumbled and held his head. Future travel was way worse than past, Briton decided. "M-Mint Bunny, I'm back…Flying Mint Bunny?" The nation lowered his hand when the creature didn't respond.

Britain's mouth fell open. This wasn't his spell room. This wasn't his hotel room. This was…was…Britain wasn't sure what to call it.

The nation was in a large stone room. One window to the outside world. The sun poked through it. The walls had the British flag tacked up at regular intervolves. On the ground was a rather large rug that covered the middle of the room until about four feet from the walls. A Celtic cross had been woven into the rug and four small Celtic knot circles set like the four corners of a rectangle. In the ring in the cross was an image of a woman with long strawberry blonde hair flowing around her. Her eyes were shut. In one hand she held a staff with an orb at the top and the other held out.

Sadly, Britain couldn't see the artwork for a large table made of dark wood sat in the middle of the room, covering the woman.

The Brit slowly walked closer to the table and his breath hitched in his throat. Maps of the world covered with arrows and writing. One in practical stole most of Britain's attention.

Unlike normal map where different countries were depicted in different colors, most of this one was red, all of North America and the Middle East, the whole of Africa and Australia, and most of the countries in Europe and Asia. The only differing colors were found on the southern most countries of South America, Russia, China, and Japan in Asia, and the Poland-Lithuania area.

That wasn't what disturbed the nation the most, though: the map was not of the modern world. A thick line outlined an area that stretched from Italy up to about the Nordic area. This land had a few letter written on it, as did most of the others. There were some smaller countries land outline with dots with their names written in small letter inside the thick lined area. The map look _dreadfully _familiar, but Britain couldn't quiet recall were he'd seen it.

Britain scanned the map for Germany or Hong Kong, Hell, even Sealand, but couldn't find their forms among the lines or their initials among the letters. Other counties too, countries whose boarders Britain hadn't seen in centuries, were outlined.

Some writing on one of the maps of Asia caught the Brit's eyes. It said, "China's putting up more of a fight than expected; reroute troops from S. Amer. to China."

Upon farther examination, Britain found more and more of these notes: "France isn't a problem any more; move troops to Russia," "Attack the capital on XX/OO," "Can. spotted."

So few of these scribbles made sense. 'Can. spotted'…? What could that possibly mean? And the one with France—France is _always_ a problem, no 'ifs,' 'ands,' or 'buts' about it! And why would anyone _attack_ Russia? Was he mad!?

The country jerk back suddenly.

He recognized this handwriting…it was…his?

Yes, no doubt this was his handwriting. The little circles he doted his Is with and the flourish at the end of the Ss. The way double 'o' connected and the slight tilt to the As and Ps. All the same.

"Is this map mine?" The Brit furrowed his brow when someone knocked on the door. He swallowed, unsure. A knock again then a voice saying he was entering.

"Hello?" France stuck his head in. Seeing Britain crouched over the maps, he winced. "Sorry, I didn't know you were doing something, British Empire, sir. I'll just—"

"British Empire…?" Britain blinked. France just called him 'British Empire' _and _'sir.' Even when Britain was the British Empire, France rarely called him such. Maybe…the Frenchman was sick?

The older nation raised an eyebrow. "Um, oh, sorry. _Mr_. British Empire." He cleared his throat, thinking on something for a moment before making a decision. "The Guards are back, sir."

"What do you mean 'Guards'?" Britain asked slowly.

"Switzerland and Spain. They have returned from the South American Campaign; they are in the briefing room waiting for you with the others." France explained warily. He opened the door slightly, and Britain's eyes nearly jumped out of his skull.

Instead of his flashy, red-and-blue, eye-catching uniform or one of his expansive silk shirt and equal expensive pants, France was dressed in what almost looked like a British war uniform in a dully olive color.

The country tilted his head. "Mr. British Empire…?" He swallowed hard. "A-are you alright?" The Brit nodded his head.

"G-Gaurds, right. I'll be going there…shortly." Britain muttered. "Anything else?" He silently prayed that France would supply him with more information as to what the Hell was going on.

"Oh, yes." France seemed a little hesitant to give the news. "It seems that our forces set to take over Poland have been…pushed back. We think Poland had Russia back his forces, but we aren't sure yet. Sweden requests to be sent to investigate." The Frenchman muttered something under his breath.

"What was that?" Britain asked.

"Erk! I said I'd better go check to make sure Italia Veneziano is done cleaning after this." The Frenchman turned then paused. "Do you need anything else, Mr. British Empire, sir?"

_An explanation. _"Oh, no. Thank you, now go about your business and tell Sweden he may investigate." Britain ordered, trying to sound impressive. The older nation raised an eyebrow but nodded and left, shutting the door behind him. After a few moments, Britain let out a long breath.

"What the fuck was that? Why was France addressing me so…properly?" He didn't say a single word in French that whole time, and he seemed so…nervous. It reminded Britain of the way Latvia talked to Russia during the world meetings during and after the Soviet Union. Odd.

Odder more, what happened? Why was he here. This clearly wasn't his world. This wasn't his house. That _defiantly _was not his France (not that he was complaining). And what about the 'South American Campaign,' and Spain and Switzerland, 'Guards'?

"Oh, right. I'd better go to the briefing room." Britain darted for the door and was already out when he realized something: he had _no_ idea where he was going. He swallowed and looked down the left hall then the right. He shut his eyes, hoping something would tell him where to go.

_BANG! BANG!_

"I know that sound…" Britain let out a sigh of relief. Switzerland's gun. Switzerland's on the Guard. The Guard's in the briefing room. Thus if the Brit followed the gun shots, he'd certainly find the briefing room. The nation couldn't help himself but indulge in a Prussia moment: "I'm so awesome."

He turned on his heels heading down the left hall with a smile. _Okay, this is going well. Just need to keep up appearances until I fully figure out everything in this. Well, let's see what do I know: Here, I'm the British Empire still and my territory seems to encompasses most of the New and Old Worlds and for some reason some old countries still exist while some younger ones don't seem to be here. Switzerland, Spain, and, I think, Sweden are all part of my 'Guard.' And didn't France say something about Italia Veneziano, as in North Italy, being here? Does he work here? South Italy must be here to, then._

Britain was so lost in his thoughts, he forgot to pay attention to where he was heading. He jerked out of his thoughts and looked around, with his luck horridly lost.

"Why doesn't this place have any 'you-are-here' maps. It's like walking around an unfamiliar shopping mall." The Brit muttered, rubbing his chin and heading down a set of stairs. "I'll guess I shall just listen for the Swiss's shoot—_Oof_!"

Britain stumbled back. He held the railing to stabilize himself. He was almost at the bottom of the steps. On the floor in front of him, the person who walked into Britain landed, a person wrapped in a dark navy cloak with a pair of light brown pants sticking out and attached to a pair of boots.

The person sat up, holding his head.

Britain stepped forward. "G…Germany?"

The person certainly looked like the German, albeit a younger version: same color blond hair, same eye shape, same build. Only his eyes were a darker blue, not a cold sky-blue cerulean, and his hair fell over his face not slicked back. Other than that, this person looked just like Germany.

"M-Mr. British Empire!" His voice sounded like Germany's, too, but that thick German accent Britain was used to had been replaced by something that sounded more Italian than any Germanic.

Well, if it looks like a German (mostly) and if it sounds (mostly) like a German, then it must be a German (probably).

The German scrambled to his feet, patting the dust form his tunic and adjusting his sword. "I-I'm so sorry. I was, um. I mean I know I should be on guard outside but I was, um, heading to the uh, briefing and I, um—"

"There you ar—_aaah_! Mr. British Empire!"

Britain turned his head towards the owner of the voice. His mouth became unhinged again.

There stood the Northern Half of Italy, in a green dress with a white apron over the top and a bandana holding back his hair, that curl of his still sticking out of the left of his head. He was younger than Britain's normal Italy; This Italy was a teenager, about fourteen or fifteen, like Germany, although Germany appeared to be only a few years older than that, maybe sixteen.

But why was he in a dress…?

Britain recalled Hungary once telling him how everyone thought Italy was a girl when he was younger save for his brothers and herself. It was not until his voice changed, Hungary claimed, did Austria finally realized Italy true gender—and was extremely embarrassed for days afterwards.

Italy darted over to Germany. "Mr. British Empire, please don't punish Holy Rome! It was my fault: I sent Holy Roman Empire to get me a wooden spoon because metal makes the food taste funny. Please don't hit him! It's my fault! Punish me, not Holy Rome!" Italy clasped his hands together and shook them, begging. Tears ran down his cheeks.

"Holy…Rome…?" The Brit turned to the other blond. This wasn't Germany? It's the Holy Roman Empire? But Holy Roman Empire died hundreds of years ago. Than image of the map came to the nation's mind. That large outlined area from Italy to the Nordics…the letters on it: 'HRE'…

'Holy Roman Empire.'

The nations green eyes widen for a moment. Holy Rome must not have died in this world. He stared at the empire as if staring at a ghost before shaking the shock off.

Ger—Holy Rome put his hands on Italy's shoulders and forced him to step behind him. "Mr. British Empire, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have listen to him. If one of us deserves punishment, it _is_ me. Italia is being foolish—again."

Italy wiped his eyes on his apron, and Holy Rome set his jaw. Clearly their British Empire would punish at least one of them right then. Not wanting to let them see that he wasn't their British Empire, Britain stretched up to his full height.

"I've decided that, as your punishment, Holy Rome you must escort me to the briefing room. If you do this adequately, I _may _forgive you for abandoning your post." Britain said, trying to sound like an empire. How long had it been since he'd had to do that?

The two exchanged wary glances. Holy Rome licked his lips then said, "Yes, sir. Let us go." Britain gave a curt nodded and waited. Holy Rome turned and started off with Britain on his tail. A few steps away, the younger nation paused. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a wooden spoon.

"British Empire, sir. May I…?" His eyes glanced at Italy. Britain looked at the Italian then the blond. He allowed it.

Holy Roman Empire strode back with large steps. He offered up the spoon. Italy muttered a thank you—not in Italian, Britain noted—and wrapped his fingers around the handle. His fingers slipped down until they covered Holy Rome's and rested there for a moment before the Italian took the spoon.

Britain felt a small blush on his face. This scene felt like something he wasn't suppose to watch; It seemed too intimate, too personal for public display. He turned his eyes towards a painting of Tatiana and Oberon. Let the children have their moment. Britain sure hoped that was what the British Empire would do.

"His cooking does seem better with a wooden spoon," Holy Rome said when he returned, trying to sound nonchalant. The shorter blond walked away, ready to lead the Brit to the briefing room. Britain followed him but secretly glanced back at the Italian in front of the stairs.

Italy's gaze lingered on Holy Roman Empire's back for a moment. A tiny smile on the boy's lips—then he noticed Britain. His spine stiffen, and he spun around on his heels, darting for the kitchen.

Britain blinked in confusion, but shook it off. It probably didn't matter.

****Helatia!****

Holy Rome lead Britain down halls ways and up stairs, as Britain tried desperately to memorize the route there so he wouldn't be lost on his way back. The younger nation stopped at a large door. He gripped the door knob and opened the door.

The room had three tables set up with a U-shape with other countries sitting around them. The floor jetted out from the walls for a few meters before it disappeared, making an opening ten feet down. Another set of doors located on the other side of the room, these ones larger than the ones Britain and Holy Rome were at.

"About time you got here, Holy Roman Empire." Prussia snapped, like France he wore an British uniform. His was a dark color, draining what little color there was in the albino's skin. "We were just starting roll call."

"Sorry," Holy Rome muttered, holding the door for Britain. Seeing the latter nation, Prussia fell to one knee, bowing. The other nations bowed as well. It was strange seeing all those nations showing Britain so much respect.

"British Empire." Prussia stood. "I'm glad you've come. I think you're going to enjoy Spain and Switzerland's news." The albino gestured to an open chair next to him. The island nation slipped into the seat, trying to act as if he actually knew what was happening.

"Alright, now that we're all in attendance, I'll start the roll call, keeping in mind that Swiss Confederation and Kingdom of Spain are not in the room." Prussia straighten his spine. "Kingdom of Prussia." The Prussian sat down; Holy Rome stood.

"Holy Roman Empire." The blond sat.

"Mm," A tall blonde Britain instantly recognized as Sweden stood, "Kingdom of Sweden."

A man with a mask covering his face stood when the Swede sat. "Ottoman Empire."

The only woman in the entire room, Hungary, and Austria stood together. Austria's glasses were missing, Britain noted, making him look kind of plain.

"Kingdom of Austria." "Kingdom of Hungary." They sat. All the Guard members wore the same uniform as Prussia, on in different shades of dull green-browns.

Britain wet his lips. Something was different about these countries than the countries of Britain's world: Their eyes were dull, but not that Japan-eyes dull, but dead-fish eyes dull. Their voices were strangely void of their normal verb tics and their accents seemed less evident. Their movements all seemed unnervingly similar to one another's.

Then France stood. "The French Kingdom." Britain pursed his lips: the Frenchman was still a kingdom here, not a republic. Not only that, usually when France introduced himself, it was a big show of "I am _la Nation de L'amour! _The wonderful and handsome French Republic!"

Britain watched France sit, comparing his movements to the others, as the last nation stood. The Brit decided his movements were still the same smooth ones Britain used to seeing. And while those the lapses from English to French hadn't happen, his accent was still extremely evident. It was almost a comfort.

A voice laced with a slight British accent spoke, "The Thirteen Colonies of British America."

*******Hetalia!******

**Ooooh~~ Aren't you all wondering what happened? I'd tell you, but then you might not stay for the rest of the story and what fun would that be for me? =D Also, I don't think most of those official names are right, so yeah: don't use this to study for a test or anything. Also, I'm not sure if Prussia would be 'Prussia' at this time point thingy, but hey...IT'S A FANFICTION!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer, see Chapter 1.**

**Chapter 4:**

The Brit stared at America, not the adult America Britain raged at during the world meeting, but the eleven-year-old child he'd just left behind in the past. There was almost no different between the America of the past and this world's America.

_The Thirteen Colonies of British America._ America was still a colony in this world? Still a little thirteen state colony. No 'Manifest Destiny,' No Texas glasses, no bomber jacket…just the personification of thirteen, little, self-governing colonies under British rule.

Britain pinched his hand: Pain.

This was not a dream; it was really. This was actually happening! A smile spread across his face, as the little blond sat back down.

Prussia stood. "If I may." Britain blinked and nodded. The Prussian cleared his throat. "As most of you are aware, Switzerland and Spain were sent to help with forces in South America in the capturing of the remaining countries resisting the British Empire, Chile and Argentina."

_Chile and Argentina_…Britain had meet them before. Chile was a nice young man and furiously loyal to his other South American countries, especially Argentina, whom he considered his family. Argentina was a hot blood, quick tempered woman. What Britain remembered most about her was that she once almost got herself throw into a war with Belarus after Belarus insulted her dress. Of course, those personalities were of Britain's Chile and Argentina.

The door on the other side of the room creaked.

Spain and Switzerland walked in, dragging two persons bound with rope and with their heads covered. Both their movement synchronized with the other, and even from his seat above them, the Brit could see their eyes looked like the others: glossed over like a dead fish.

Spain threw his person to Switzerland. He stepped forward and dropped to one knee in a bow. "Kingdom of Spain." He pushed himself up. "British Empire, Switzerland and I have good news." The brunet nodded to the blond.

Switzerland pulled the bags off the two's head.

Chile sent Britain a venom filled glare from his pale green eyes. Argentina's black hair fell over her face, but her dark eyes echoed her comrade. Britain could seem deep gashes on the woman's honey colored arms, and a white bandage made a deep contrast against Chile's deeply tanned neck.

"The South American Campaign is over. Chile and Argentina are now under the control of the British Empire." Spain stared at Britain; His usually smile absent from his features. Britain wasn't sure if he was seeking approval or recognition for the accomplishment. No emotion could be recognize on his face. It unnerved the blond nation for a moment.

Pushing his discomfort aside, he nodded. "Very good."

Spain dipped his head.

"No, it's not!" Chile yelled. "I'm not becoming part of the British Empire! I refuse! Even if you imprison me like the rest of my family, I won't join your empire." In a lighting fast movement, Spain threw his leg out and kicked the country in the back of the head. The New World nation gasped and fell forward.

"Chile!" Argentina's eyes waters. "Spain_, ¿Por qué haces esto? ¿De verdad quieren ser controlados durante toda tu vida? {Why are you doing this? Do you really want to be controlled?}_" Something flickered in the nation's eyes, but was quick extinguished.

"We don't speak Spanish in this household." Spain said listlessly. "You must learn that before too long, Miss Argentina." The woman stared at the nation.

"_Tú España no son más. {You are not Spain}._" Argentina's head fell forward. Britain saw small puddles of tears appear on the floor in front of the woman. She looked so weak now. The glare she shot him seemed now like a final half-ditch attempted to keep her dignity as she fell into defeat.

Britain felt a pang of guilt but keep his face deadpan.

Switzerland forced the woman to her feet then shoved her to Spain. The brunt started to take the woman away when Chile jumped to his feet. His hands freed. Chile charged at Spain, tackling him to the ground, freeing Argentina, and wrestled his sword from the Spaniard's hip. The other members of the Guard drew their swords; several jumped over the tables, about to pounce on the nation. France got to his feet, leaning forward on the table; America cringed.

"Move and I'll kill him!" Chile scramble to his feet, the sword tip on Spain's jugular. The Guards continued coming. Chile pressed the sword against the Spaniard's skin. A small pool of blood welled up on his throat.

Hungary was already down into the pit. Switzerland had his gun poised at the Chilean, stepping forward.

_Are they just going to let Spain die? Stop! Stop! STOP! _Britain was about to jump up and yell but someone else beat him to the punch.

"Chile, stop!" Argentina grabbed her neighbor's arm. "If you do this you'll be no better than they are. Do you really want that?" Her eyes wet with tears. Chile pressed his lips into a thin line. He moved the sword away.

Britain let out a quiet sigh of relief—

_BANG!_

Chile gasped and fell to his knees with his hand at his shoulder. The sword clattered to the floor. Blood pooled on the ground. Switzerland lowered his gun. The barrel still smoked.

The Guard's face remained deadpan. France winced, covering his month with his hand. America turned away and held up a hand to obstruct his vision of the scene. Britain simply stared in shock.

Prussia sheathed his sword. "Switzerland, take Chile to the infirmary. We don't want him to die when he still has some natural recourses. Hungary, take Argentina to the prison. She and her family can have a little reunion." The Prussian waved his hand.

Hungary and Switzerland dragged the two South American countries out of the room. A trail of blood followed Chile. A trail of tears followed Argentina.

The members of the Guard who made into the pit turned. Their weapons put away. Holy Rome paused and leaned down. He picked up the shell of the bullet that embedded in Chile's shoulder.

"Do you have anything else to add, British Empire?" Prussia asked the Brit. Britain swallowed the shock and disgust. He didn't trust his voice, so he shook his head.

Prussia's voice boomed, "Alright. This briefing is adjourned. Remember to begin preparing to head to your regional positions. Three days time most of us head out to the Chinese frontline."

******Hetalia!******

Britain felt sick. What a horrid scene. His eyes lingered on the blood as the members of the Guard exited. Sweden stood behind Britain quietly, following his gaze.

"Do you want me to have Italy clean that?" Sweden asked, starling the Brit. Britain spun around and stared at the Swede. Had he spoke in full words just them? No missing vowels or anything.

"What?" Britain forced the shock from his voice. "Sorry, what did you say?" The Swede repeated himself.

Italy clean up the blood? Britain frowned at the thought. Italy cried at the blood from a paper cut, even if it wasn't his finger. There had to be stronger-willed maids around this huge castle.

Britain shook his head. "Tell someone else to do it—not Italy." Something, pity, maybe, flicked behind Sweden's glasses, but, as with Spain, it extinguished itself.

"Right." The Swede muttered then left. Following Sweden's example, Britain stood and left the room, behind Ottoman Empire, the last Guard member. The Brit paused, trying to recall just which way he was to go.

"I hate these briefings. Why do I have to come?"

Britain's heart skipped a beat: America.

"I hate going to these. Someone always gets hurt really bad." America sighed.

"Yes, that is true, but British Empire orders you to come, so you don't have much of a choice." France stated.

"Yeah, I guess you're right, France. I hope Chile's okay."

"_Ou—" _The Frenchman bit down hard on his tongue to keep from uttering the word. "I mean, yes. I'm sure Chile will be fine. British Empire would not let him die while there was use for him."

"Yeah, I guess so."

Britain heard footsteps. Seeing as it was most ungentlemanly-like to eavesdrop (or maybe he wasn't ready to encounter America), the Brit darted down the hall.

******Hetalia!******

It had not taken long at all for Britain to find himself completely and utterly lost. Every familiar turn turned into an unfamiliar hall. A painting Britain was sure he'd seen from a distance morphed into some strange abstract up-close. Walls, drapes, windows, tables, nothing helped him.

"Okay, Britain, think. If I can find those stairs again." The Briton rubbed his chin, recalling the moments that happened around the stairs. He walked down them, that was a given, then he bumped into Holy Rome, and Italy came running out looking for HRE and the spoon.

"Spoon! That is. If I can just find the kitchen, the stairs can't be that far." Britain hit his fist against his palm. "Okay, now where is the kitchen?"

Instead of wasting his time, Britain decided to use logic over searching through the halls again.

Kitchen=food, and food=cooking, and cooking=smells!

The power of deduction has solved yet another mystery. Britain made a note if he ever saw Sir Arthur in the Afterlife to thank him profusely for his wonderful detective.

Taking in a deep breath through his nose, Britain detected the slightest scent of food. It was too faint for him to fully distinguish the exact source or dish. He walked to the end of the hall and took a whiff. The scent was stronger here.

Britain turned left to the next turn and smelled. Weaker here. He turned around and headed right, and the scent grew stronger.

The nation repeated this process up and down the halls. Thanks to the blessing of Someone Up Above, he hadn't encountered any other people. The process of elimination was difficult enough, let alone explaining it to someone.

Finally, Britain somehow found himself standing in front of the painting of Tatiana and Oberon. He smiled. Almost home free. He turned towards around: the stairs. The Brit smirked, contented. How did his Empire fall when he was just so great?

He headed up the stairs and down the hallway. Almost home free…

…Until he took the wrong hall and became completely lost. The Brit swore. He'd have to backtrack to the stairs and start again. Damn, this was starting to become a real pain in the arse.

Voices drifted to his ears. Britain looked around wildly for a place to hide. He spotted a full suit of armor resting in a corner. Donning the armor would have taken too long and would have been too noisy, but hiding behind it, on the other hand…

The Brit slipped in the space between the wall and the armor, pressing himself against the stones. He swallowed and desperately began to think of an excuse if he was found: He thought he saw a coin, he dropped a scone behind it, he, he, he—

"…essons." America sighed.

"I know you hate the lessons, but like the briefings, you don't have a choice." France said.

"I'm starting to think the briefings are a punishment, even if British Empire says they for my schooling. He smiled strangely when I said my name at the briefing, too. It creeped me out."

Britain cranked his neck to see.

America's gaze was at the ground, while France had his hand on the boy's shoulder. Holy Rome and Italy were with them, as well.

"I…saw that, too." Holy Rome said.

"Yeah. I hope someone messes up really bad, and British Empire go to punish them and forgets about me." America sighed. "That's a horrible thought, isn't it?" He shrugged. "I suppose I'd better be prepare for tomorrow's lesson with 'big brother' British Empire." The child spat the last four words with a hatred Britain would have more expected from an adult than a boy.

The blond ran a hand over his hair. Nantucket sprang back up the seconds his hand moved on. Though Britain would never admit it, he'd always thought America's little Nantucket hair was kind of cute, offsetting his part just enough. He remembered wanting so very much to touch it when America was under his care, but never gave into the temptation.

Pulling himself from his memories, Britain watched America walk away. An air of gloom seemed to cling to him.

France let out a long sigh. "Now that he's gone, you two." He turned to the teenagers. "I have a question."

"What is it, big brother?" Italy titled his head. His side curl tapped the end of Holy Rome's nose. The older empire took a step to the side.

"Did…was British Empire acting strange to you today?" France asked. The Brit behind the armor bit his lip. He thought he was doing a pretty good job pretending he knew what he was doing. Guess not.

"Ve?"

"Now that you mention it, yeah, he was." Holy Roman Empire said. "I bumped into him earlier when I was getting a spoon for Veneziano, and I thought for sure he was going to make me walk around with a blindfold for a week for my blunder."

"_Si_—I mean yes. I thought he was going to hit me or something, but all he wanted was for Holy Rome to take him to the briefing room." Italy smiled. France pressed his lips into a line and nodded. The smile on the Italian's face faded suddenly. "Oh, yeah. I just remembered something. I think…he saw us."

"What do you mean, Italy?" The Frenchman raised an eyebrow. Italy chewed his lip, glancing at the blond empire beside him. Noticing this, France sighed. "Oh."

"It wasn't anything big. I just couldn't help myself," The Italian lowered his gaze to the ground, "and held Holy Rome's hand for a moment when he gave me the spoon. I'm pretty sure British Empire saw it…"

_So that was a personal scene_…Britain thought, blushing. Hadn't Hungary said something about Italy and Holy Rome being close friends…? He knew he shouldn't have watched.

"Italia…" Holy Rome's shoulders heaved up in a sigh. "I thought so too, but he didn't say anything."

"He might be plotting something." France said, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. "He might be taking tally of everything we do, every little slip-up, and compiling them." The color drained from Italy's face. His normally shut eyes opened wide in shock and horror. Seeing this, Holy Rome gripped the Italian's hand in his own, squeezing it once.

That feeling Britain had earlier during the spoon handoff crept into his stomach, but he didn't look away.

"Compiling means he'll make the punishment really, really, _really_ bad, and I know I can't stop myself from messing up. Who knows what—what British Empire will do. He—he could attack Venice, or he could hit me with that club again, or, or, or—" The Italian was quaking now, whispering crueler and crueler punishments.

"Italy, calm down." France held his hands out like he wanted to reach forward, but did not. "It's okay. I'm was just musing. British Empire probably isn't doing that."

"But what if he _is_?!" Italy asked through a sob.

"Veneziano, it'll be okay. I'll protect you." Holy Roman Empire promised.

"_NO_!" The younger boy cried. "Then he'll hurt you, and I don't want to see you hurt, either!"

Italia Veneziano gripped his apron so tightly his knuckled turned white; tears run down his face like a river, and he choked out a few words between the sobs that shook his body. Britain's gut twisted. He felt like he was going to be sick.

Holy Rome gripped his hand into a fist once then grabbed the sides of Italy's face and pressed his lips to the weeping Italian's.

Britain had to cover his mouth with his hand to muffle the gasp.

Holy Rome pulled away, wrapping his arms around Italy. The Northern Half of Italy leaned against the blond's chest, sobbing still, though not as violently. Holy Rome rocked him back and forth, muttering things Britain couldn't catch. France frowned then covered his mouth with his hand, looking away.

"It's okay, Veneziano. It's going to be alright. I promise, one day British Empire will fall, and then you and I can get married and live happily ever after, I promise. I promise." Holy Roman Empire whispered.

Italy sniffled and murmured, "_S-si. Ti amo, _Holy Rome."

"_Ti amo, _Italia Veneziano." Holy Rome smiled.

"Holy Rome, take Italy to his room and clean him up before someone on the Guard sees." France put his hand on the younger blond's back and urged him down the hall. Italy leaned against the Holy Roman's shoulder as Holy Rome escorted him.

France sighed and ran a hand through his hair then whispered something in French quietly. He turned and left, walking right by Britain's hiding spot.

******Hetalia!******

Britain felt dizzy and nauseated. Somehow he had found his why back to the room he'd started in and now slumped down in a chair, holding his head.

What on Earth was going on? Clearly he'd ended up in the wrong world when he returned from the past—or maybe this was his world? Had he messed up the past that badly to—

"No. That's not it." Britain whispered. "Time always fixes itself, I didn't do enough to effect it—I know I didn't." He rubbed his temples. What had happened? How did the British Empire and Britain switch place—

"Oh, damn."

If Britain was here, then that meant British Empire was in his world, didn't it?

"I hope he realizes it before he goes and makes a fool of my name. I've got to find a way back." The Brit's eyes lids felt heavy. Maybe everything would be clear after a bit of a nap…

**I can't think of a witty or funny thing to say, but **_**oh yeah**_**! Sorry if the Spanish/Italian/any other language I am not a speaker of is incorrect here. Also, I assume most of you know what those commonly used words like '**_**si**_**,' '**_**oui**_**,' '**_**fratello**_**,' '**_**ti amo**_**,' '**_**mien Gott**_**,' etc mean, so I'm not going to translate them. If you really don't know, I'd suggest using a translator, because you'll end up seeing them from time to time here (and in other fanfics, too…) ^^;**

**Oh and fluff in the start of the next chapter~!**

**Also, QUESTION TIME~! Do you guys WANT to see what's going on with British Empire? You'll know sooner or later, but which one? Sooner or later?**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer, see chapter 1**

**Chapter 5:**

Holy Rome stared at the sleeping Italian. He was so adorable, even if his eyes were puffy from crying. The empire petted the younger nation's hair absentmindedly and smiled. The Holy Roman shut his eyes.

He remembered vividly when he lived with cousin Austria and Miss Hungary, when he was naive enough to think Italy was actually a girl, when he spend all his time trying to overcome his shyness to talk to Italia or studying…back before British Empire tried to take over. Back when Holy Rome was still just a child.

He remembered when he set out for war that time, when Italy had been crying and begged him not to go. When he admitted his love for, at the time, her, and she, much to his utter embarrassment, handed him her underpants.

He still had those panties though, some where, hiding among his belongs, under some old book or sword or cloak in one of the trucks in his room. Not that he'd ever admit it, of course. Or tell anyone. It wouldn't take too long for word of it to get to British Empire's ears and…

Holy Rome didn't want to think about that.

The Holy Roman opened his eyes.

Italy was still sleeping. His hands pulled to his chest. Mouth hung open slightly. He hadn't changed out of the maid dress and merely collapsed onto the bed, nearly asleep before he touched the bed.

British Empire worked Italy hard everyday. Holy Rome often had to stand back and watch as the Brit forced Italy to clean up blood, sometimes from his friends, sometimes from strangers, and sometimes from himself. The look on the Italian's face was always a mix of disgust and sadness. Holy Rome once said he was sorry that he was so sad, and Italy simply replied he wasn't sad for himself, he was sad for whoever spilled the blood. They deserved pity and sorrow more than the maid forced to clean it.

Italy had a purer heart than he ever would is what the empire decided after that. He also decided that one day, he'd make sure British Empire fell, so he and Veneziano could be happy.

Glancing around twice, HRE nodded to himself. This was safe, this was okay. No one was watching them right now. He leaned down, pushing Italy's bangs back, and kissed his forehead.

"Sleep tight, Italia Veneziano."

"Mm, Holy Roman Empire," Italy muttered in his sleep, curling into a ball.

Holy Rome smiled softly, lingering in the door way before leaving.

****Hetalia!***

"In the servant's quarters again, are we?" Prussia asked when Holy Rome turned the corner.

"I can go where I please." Holy Rome retorted. The albino smirked, his arms crossed lazily over his chest. The empire walked past him. "I'm going to sleep now. Good night, _fratello_."

Prussia's smirk fell into a thin line; his eyes glazed over. "You know, we don't speak Italian in this household."

"Would you rather Latin, _fratres_?" He was not in the mood to deal with his brother right now. He turn and glared at the albino. "Or German, _bruder?_" Something flickered in Prussia's dead eyes.

"Stop it." Prussia snapped, his voice hard. "Go to bed, Holy Rome."

"I am, I am." Holy Rome went to his door then paused. He looked his brother up and down. The Prussian looked worn, tired. It was a low blow of him to speak in German to Prussia. Feeling a pang of guilt, Holy Rome said, "You'd better go to sleep too,Prussia."

He looked up and met Holy Roman Empire's eyes. Dead red to concerned blue…

"_G-Gute Nacht, {G-Good Night}" _Prussia muttered. His voice sounded strained.

"_Buonanotte_, {_Good night_}" The Holy Roman grinned slightly and went to his room.

The door shut, and Prussia slumped against the wall, holding his throat. He could hear it—that _monster_'s voice: _Prussia, you broken a rule. You was going to be punished_.

Those words rolled through his head over and over and over. His head felt like his skull was going to crack open—Like he was going do fall over dead on the floor. The words drowned out his own thoughts like static. His brain was drowning in those words. They were a thick fog, and he was lost in it.

Prussia let out a sigh as the words started to fade. He could hear his thoughts again slowly bubble up. His mind cleared. His legs gave out. The Prussian leaned his head back against the wall, breathing heavily.

All that…All that for two little words…

******Hetalia!******

Britain blinked. In that moment between sleep and awake, he wondered idly if Hook still had that ice cream and rum offer open. He honestly wouldn't mind, sitting on a rocking ship in the middle of the blue ocean, the sound of gulls and lapping waves, Hook merrily rambling on and on about something or another.

Then the Brit realized where he was. The memories of yesterday flooded back. He jumped to his feet, swearing.

How stupid could he be? He couldn't sleep—not when he was in a parallel world he knew next to nothing about, not when the British Empire might be in his own world doing God only knows, not when he didn't have any idea or plan for returning home.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid…" Britain started for the door but caught himself. He didn't know where to go or what he was going to do. It was best to stay in there for the time being.

His stomach growled. That was went the Brit remembered he hadn't eaten since yesterday morning, just before the world meeting, just before America stood and started ranting.

"Damn that man. If I ever seen Alfred again, I'm going to clout him one good." The Briton swore. "Right on the back of the head. With any luck, Texas will fall from his face and I might accidentally step on it! And, if I remember correctly, he can't see very much without Texas, can he? He'd probably walked around blindly and run into a pole." Britain laughed aloud. He need a pick-me-up right now, and if it came at Alfred's expense, then why shouldn't he indulge himself?

His stomach yelled in protest again. Britain sighed. He could attempt to find the kitchen, would British Empire do that? Maybe—

"Oh, yes," Britain reached into his pocket. "I slipped some of France's awful biscotti into my pocket before I left." He took out the hard bread wrapped in a napkin, and something else. The Brit raised an eyebrow and set the biscotti aside.

A smile crossed his face. His cell phone.

Though the likely hood of it actually making a call or text was slim to none, Britain turned it on and scrolled through his contact, hitting a random number while eating a biscotto.

The phone did not even ring once, nor did he heard the mechanical voice tell him 'call failed, please try again.' He tried a few more numbers with the same result. He pursed his lips.

In the corner, Britain noticed the symbol proclaiming he had a voice message. The call from France yesterday, he'd ignored it. Chewing his lip, he pressed the screen and held the phone to his ear.

"I guess you're not answering your phone, Angleterre." France, _his France,_ said. "_Oui_, well, I suppose its no guess why. Anyway, I'm sure Amerique didn't mean it. Do not go do anything rash—or stupid—okay? And if you decide to do something dumb, send that amazing picture of me I took with your phone when you weren't looking, please! I look so beautiful—who are we kidding? I always do!" France laughed, an almost comforting sound. "Anyway, please try to get over you and Amerique's lover-spat before you come back to the meeting tomorrow? It reflects badly on me as the host. _Au revoir, _Angleterre_._"

Britain shut the phone off, a bitter taste in his mouth.

A sharp knock on the door forced Britain to swallow and slip the phone into his pocket. "Come in."

America opened the door, looking around tentatively. He held a thick, old book in his hands with the word "History" written on the cover. The boy looked at Britain, as though he half expecting to be yelled at.

"Sorry, I'm late, British Empire." He gripped the book to his chest. "Please forgive my lateness."

"Oh, you are forgiven." Britain tried to sound sure of himself, but his heart was blaring in his ear. The Brit watched as the American entered the room, leaving the door opened. He set the book on the table. The child glanced at Britain and asked to move the maps. Britain nodded numbly.

His Nantucket hair bobbing slightly as he opened the book, and that temptation to grab it welled up again. Britain pushed it down.

"O-okay, let's get started, shall we?" Britain smiled softly, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder and leaning over, reading the chapter title, the Hundred Years' War. He sighed inwardly, thankful that the topic was something he knew about.

America watched Britain read over the first page out of the corner of his eye. He tried to keep his breathing even, gripping his hands into fists. Britain noticed this and straight himself up.

_Why is he so uncomfortable? _Britain wondered. He recalled American saying he didn't like these lessons, though why was uncertain. Well, Britain didn't have much of a choice, he'd just conduct the lesson as through it were a normal school lecture.

"Why don't you read that first page or two and we'll discus the implications."

America nodded and started reading aloud. Britain slipped into a seat. It was such a wonderful sound, that voice reading, even if it was about a war Britain ultimately lost.

"Alright," Britain said after a while, "that's enough for one day, don't you think? Any more about that war, and I might have to kick the Frenchman in the seat of his pants." He laughed. America sent him a quizzical expression. The Brit's laughed quickly died out. He coughed into his hand.

The awkward silence was broken off by a knock on the open door. France, flanked by Prussia, entered the room. Prussia saluted Britain. Unsure, the Brit nodded back. American shut the book and stood. The boy walked over to France, standing beside him, spine straight as a well-trained solider.

"Yes, Prussia?"

The Prussian's hand fell to his side. "The Guard is ready to sent out tomorrow, Mr. British Empire."

"Ah, very good." Britain clasped his hands behind his back. "Anything else."

"Y-yes, Sweden left this morning for the Polish warfront. He says he will sent a report as soon as possible."

"Alright then."

They stood in silence, waiting. Britain was at a loss. What was he going to say? What would British Empire say? He still was not sure, although something told him the empire's words wouldn't be entirely gentlemanly.

Prussia spoke up. "If you have nothing else for me to do, I will go ensure everyone is ready once again, Mr. British Empire."

"Oh, yeah—I mean, yes. Go do that, Prussia." As the Prussian turned, Britain added, "Oh, and _danke {thank you}_." France's eyes widened, and America took a step back. Prussia stiffen. Fearing insulting him, the gentlemanly side of Britain forced him to say, "Sorry, if I mispronounced that."

The Prussian nodded curtly and left.

"America, go start on your chores. I will meet you there in a moment." France ushered the child out. America furrowed his brow but walked down the hall, out of sight. The Frenchman shut the door.

"Is there something you need, France?" Britain asked, suddenly feeling wary. He shoved the feeling aside.

"Yes, there is." France turned and smiled, leaning against the door. "I was wondering if maybe it was possible to…" He took a breath. "For me to teach America French?"

Britain blinked. He recalled once, while at a world meeting in Mexico City, his America got into a rather loud argument about immigration with Mexico which started out in English and ended with both parties swearing at each other in perfect Spanish. Britain confronted the American afterwards, wanting to know why the idiot took his time to learn Spanish, but no other language, no matter how much Britain always pestered him to.

American had laughed and said_, "Britain, dude, I just so happen to pick Spanish up somewhere, besides I only need to know a few phrases in any language: Yes/no, thank you, take me to the English speaking hospital, where is the bathroom?, and one super-size BigMac with fries, please. After that, all I need to know is a few good swears, and I'm golden." _

"Brit—Angleterre?" France's eyes borrowed into the Brit, as their owner waited for an answer.

Britain let out a breath, trying to lower his blood pressure. That was one of the many mistakes Britain regretted in his teaching of his America, that he did not forced him to learn any other languages. Britain knew for a fact that Canada could speak at least four, and understood a few more.

Britain smiled at France and nodded. "Yes, do so promptly. Start tomorrow if you want."

France blinked, once, twice, three times. A small smile played on his lips. The Frenchman leaned down to retie his boots.

The barrel of a gun pressed against Britain's nose.

"Who are you," France growled, "and what have you done with British Empire?"

Britain blinked and stared at the metal against his nose. It was warm from being stashed in France's boot. The Brit held his hands up and smiled.

"Well, I wouldn't have suspect my France of such capable thought as to figure it out, but I suppose I haven't really been acting much like my counterpart, have I?" Britain sighed. France cocked the pistol. Britain gritted his teeth.

"Tell me who you are." France demanded.

"I'm Brit—"

"No, you are not! The real British Empire forbid the talking of anything other than English. The teaching of any other language is against federal law expect for strict reasoning." France growled. "So, who are you?"

"If you'd let me finish, I'd tell you! I'm Brit_ain, _not British Empire." Britain stated. "And I—"

"You…" France chewed his lip then took a step back but kept the gun pointed at Britain. "You are testing me, aren't you?" A look of horror crossed the Frenchman's face. Britain raised an oversized eyebrow.

"Testing you…? What? I just told you, I'm not the British Empire. My official name is the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and I very much wish you would stop interrupting me!"

France looked the Brit warily up and down. "I…don't think I believe you."

Britain pinched the bridged of his nose. "It's true, you prat Frenchman! I'm not the bloody British Empire, I haven't been in a…very long time." It felt like a punch to his pride to say that, but he had to convince France to put the gun down and listen to him. The Frenchman might be able to help Britain return home.

France narrowed his eyes. "There is only one why I'll believe you." He turned the gun from Britain and placed the barrel pointed at his heart. Britain's heart skipped a beat. He could not be serous?

"If you're not the British Empire, then you'll let me do this, let me shoot myself. The British Empire doesn't like it when his _favorites _hurt themselves." France's face was dead serious.

"You—you can't kill yourself! Think about your country! Your _people_!" Britain yelled, throwing out his arm.

France smiled softly. "What people? Under British rule, their all British, not French. Besides, you know as well as I do I won't stay gone long. You made sure of that."

"W-what? No, I didn't! France, I am _not _British Empire! Listen to me carefully, I'm from a different world, a parallel one, and, and, and—" Britain was panicking. He spoke faster and faster until blurting out, "I know! You said British Empire does let you speak French, right? Then would he sing a _French _song?"

Speeding up the tempo and sing greatly out of tune, the Britain sang, "_Au clair de la lune_ _mon ami Pierrot/_ _Prête-moi ta plume/_ _Pour écrire un mot_/ _Ma chandelle est morte_/ _Je n'ai plus de feu_/ _Ouvre-moi ta porte_/ _Pour l'amour de Dieu_!" Britain took a breath.

He moved his hands in a rolling motion. "Oh, what was that silly one about the bell? Or was is about chickens? Um, Brother John are you working or something. Oh, what was it?" The Brit hit his temples with the heels of his hands trying to release the memory of a song from one of the many French festivals Francis forced him to attended when they were children.

A clear lyric. A tune. A melody. Something, anything, to stop the other nation from pulling the trigger.

"_Cesser {Stop_}." France lowered the gun. "You must be telling the truth. British Empire would kill me himself first than make such a fool of himself."

A blush crossed the Brit's face. "S-shut up. I was doing what any clear-minded person would have done. Now listen to me before this reason in your brain wears off and I have to throw that gun out the window."

France smiled and held the gun out, dropping it. It went off the second it hit the ground. The two men jumped a foot in the air. A bullet shot through one of the Union Jacks on the wall, leaving a hole in the fabric.

"Um, oops?" France blinked, sweat dropping slightly. Careful of the hair trigger, even though the gun wasn't cocked, Britain picked up the pistol and set it on the map table, pointing the barrel out the window.

"Okay, you don't have any more weapons one you—and don't make a perverted comment about me giving you a cavity search, or I will punch you in the stomach." Britain added the last part out of reflex, like he would do with his France.

"I'm clean, Anglet—Britain." France bit his tongue.

"You can call me 'Angleterre' if you wish. My France does; it doesn't really bother me anymore. It hasn't for centuries." Britain told France, smiling.

France nodded, returning the grin. "_Oui_, Angleterre. Continue."

"Well, as I told you, I'm not British Empire. My official name is United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. I lost my title of British Empire quiet some time ago. I'm actually from parallel world and ended up here by mistake yesterday. I can only assume that your British Empire must be in my world." Britain pursed his lips seeing France wince. "I'm not entire sure what is going on here, nor am I sure how I am to return to my world."

France opened his mouth to speak when the door opened.

"Is that true?"

**DUH! DUH! DUH! Who is at the door? What did they hear? Will they throw a party for Waveripple because she is awesome?! (With any luck, the former!)**

**Anyway, kind of shortish chapter, considering. Most of these chapters have been longer than my normal 4-5 page ones. Most of these are, like, 6+. Which is weird for me. I would have ended this in lots of places, but I just kept writing. Originally, the very last part of the last chapter was going to be the first of this one, but I changed it.**

**Oh, yeah, warning for the next chapter, there is a LOT of talking in it.**

**Aslo, you'll see what happens to British Empire in chapter 7...just so you know. I don;t want to split up this chapter and the next.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer, see Chapter 1**

**Chapter 6:**

Italy titled his head, as Holy Roman Empire and America stared at the Italian in pure shock. Holy Rome slapped his hand over Veneziano's mouth. Italy pushed his hand away and walked in.

"Well? Is it true? Are you really not British Empire? Ve?" Italy asked earnestly.

"Yes, I'm not." Britain walked past Italy and to the door. The two younger blonds stiffen. "I'd rather not speak with this door open. So please, do come in."

They hesitated. Holy Rome glanced at Italy, who smiled back. Taking a steeling breath, he came in, his hand on his sword hilt. He stood extremely close to Italy, holding the Italian's hand with his free one.

America swallowed, glancing from the couple in the room to Britain. The Brit smiled. "I promise I don't bite." America looked unsure.

"Amerique," France said. America blinked then nodded, entering the room. He stood next to the eldest blond, as Britain checked the hallway. The Brit shut the door, locking it.

The click of the locked door caused all the occupants, save Britain, to cringe.

"There, no more unwanted interruptions from snooping children." He said with mock irritation, hoping for a smile or some recognition of amusement from them. Their faces remained the same, wary, uncertain. The Brit's stomach turned.

"So," Holy Rome squeezed Italy's hand. "If you're not British Empire, like you say, why are you here?"

"I could ask you the same thing." Britain leaned against the table.

"We heard a gun and came running. I was worried about big brother France." Italy said, looking at France. Italy began ridged suddenly, chewing his lip.

"It's alright. I'm perfectly find." The Frenchmen smiled in an assuring way. The Italian relaxed.

"Alright, back to Holy Rome's question. I'm here by a mishap. I'm guessing that your British Empire and myself were using the same t—" He paused, deciding whether he should tell them about the time travel. Well, they'd fine out one way or another. He wanted to build their trust; lying was not a good way to do that.

The Brit took a breath. "The same time travel spell. Because we're the same person, essentially, I'm inclined to think, the time stream made us switch places. That is why I am here."

"Why were you time traveling? I didn't know that was possible." Italy smiled. "I wanna do that! I wanna visit Grandpa Rome!"

"Well, it's a long story, but let's say I when back because someone, whom if I think about for to long I will punch a wall, made me really, really, really mad. It was impulsive and childish of me to go back to change something." Britain sighed.

"Really? Really? What were you going to change?" Italy pressed.

Britain's face winced. "I'd…rather not say, if you don't mind."

Italy opened his mouth, but Holy Rome cut in. "Alright then, I have a question. Why aren't you the British Empire anymore."

"I…" Britain let out a sigh. "I fell. I lost most all of my colonies and territories one way or another. I mean, I'm still a powerful country, but I'm far from an empire anymore."

Holy Rome nodded. "I see. So, how much of the world _do_ you control?"

Britain walked to the table, found a map with minimal writing on it, and tapped the British Isles with his finger. "Most of the isles here, save for this part of Ireland, and a few overseas territories."

"Like America?" Italy chirped, gesturing to the American, who sent Italy a glare. "Is he your territory in your world? He must be, if he is here, right?" Italy continued jabbering on. America gripped his hands into fists, but gritted his teeth and didn't speak. Holy Rome tried to quiet the Italian, as did France, with no prevail. Britain's stomach turned, and he tasted bile.

"No." Britain snapped. The other nations stared at him.

"America hasn't been under British Rule since 1775." Britain said slowly. He tried calming himself with a few deep breaths. "Not since…_blarg_…the American Revolution." The Brit covered his mouth. The nation braced himself against the table. He would rather not vomit. He swallowed down his stomach acids with shudder.

"R-really?" America asked, wide-eyed. "Seventeen…seventy-…five? Since then?"

"For the most part. The war itself started on April 19th of 1775." Britain gritted his teeth; he could feel his blood pressure raising. He recalled all eight of those bloody years in perfect clarity. From the first battle he fought against America to that day in 1783, when he couldn't bring himself to shoot.

Without thinking, Britain walked slowly to one of the stone walls, threw back his fist, and punched the gray. A small crater appeared when the Brit took his hand back. He shook hand, letting bits of stone fall to the ground.

Each nation understood what had happened as Britain returned.

"I'm sorry." He smiled, reclaiming his sanity. "I just couldn't stop myself."

America let out a breath. "I revolted in your world, huh?"

"I'm afraid so. On July 4th, 1776, the Thirteen Colonies of British America declared _in_…_dependence,_" He hissed the word through his teeth, "and renounced his name. He called himself…The United States of America. And with help from France, Spain, and Netherlands, he somehow won against me, but without them, he won't have won, that I can guarantee." Britain crossed his arms.

"United States of America," The youngest nation said, tasting the words as they rolled off his tongue.

"Whoa, super cool, America!" Italy bounced on his toes. "The Thirteen United States of America, what a nice name!"

"Fifty, actually. There are currently fifty states, oh, and his capital, the District of Columbia. My America, over all, has the third large landmass, behind Russia and Canada." The Brit interjected.

He felt a slight pride in his chest as he spoke. He would never admit it, but the fact that two of the children he helped raise were now two of the largest countries in the world always made him proud.

America's jaw unhinged and fell open. Amused by the look on the child's face, the elder nation said, "Yes, fifty states, and at least four territories I can think of. My America is a superpower, if something adversely effects his economy, it tends to effect most the rest of the world as well, if the 1930s are any indication. That and a military power: he's won more wars and conflicts than he'd ever lost. Most countries with his backing don't lose, either."

All the other nations were in some form of shock at that point. France's eyes kept darting from America to Britain and back again. Holy Rome was muttering something to himself, while Italy praised America for his counterpart's success. The little American though simply slumped to the ground with his eyes glued to his shoes.

Of course, then Britain recalled just whose fault it was he was here. "But, then again, superpower or not, he'd still a bloody _idiot _obsessed with fast food and comic books. He's impulsive and emotional, and always claims to be the 'hero,' and Alfred's abilities to read the atmosphere are the most pathetic I've ever seen. He once left the warfront, because he didn't get any Valentine's Day chocolate. Also, that man has made it his mission in life to piss me off, I'm sure."

The veins in Britain's head were starting to bulge out. He had to think of happy things, freshly baked scones, economic upturns, Sherlock Holmes, sailing with Hook, to relaxed.

Once the tension released from his shoulder blades, the Brit was happy to see the shock had worn from the other nations.

Italy's arm shot up, and he waved it around. "Oh! Oooh~ Mr. Britain! What about me? What I am like in your world? Am I a superpower? Am I big and strong?"

Britain wet his lips. "I'm not sure how to answer that. Well, I guess you're strong enough, seeing as you held your own—for the post part—during World War II even if I did capture you and Romano. From what I can tell you're a lot like you are now. Only, you are older in my world, and don't wear a dress."

"Ve!" Italy smiled broadly. "That makes me so happy~! What about Holy Rome, and big brother France?"

The Brit's eyes rested on the Holy Roman, a pang in his chest, then moved onto France. Britain laughed half-heartedly. "The most shocking news out of the way first, I suppose. France and I are allies."

France snickered for a moment, then laughed loudly. "Really now? We are?"

"Yes, quiet. My France and I don't get along well, but we do support each other. The official name of my France is the French Republic, though. He flirts too often with too many people, both women and men. And the entire world almost ganged up to kill him after he went on a bloodbath on April Fool's Day when he…well that's not something I feel comfortable discussing in front of children." A blush crossed the Brit's face, and he avoided eye contact. He pushed the not-so-gentlemanly thoughts from his head.

"Alright," Italy paused then nodded, content with the Briton's response. "What about Holy Roman Empire? I bet he's really strong in your world. He must control half of Europe, right?" A sad look formed on Britain's face as Italy rattled on. He took a breath, steeling himself for the look he knew would be on Italy's face.

"In my world, the Holy Roman Empire is dead. He was dissolved by the French ruler Napoleon at the start of the 1800s."

Holy Rome's eyes widen; the color drained from Italy's face. France's mouth fell open. America winced, eyeing the Italian. Britain watched as Veneziano's face fell.

"W-what?" Italy whimpered.

"I'm sorry, it's true. There is no Holy Roman Empire in my world, not anymore."

To Britain's surprise, Italy didn't cry. He didn't sob. His knees didn't give out. He didn't beg Britain to tell him it's not true. Italy simply let out a sigh and grabbed both the Holy Roman Empire's hand with his. The Italian stepped closer until he was pressed against the Holy Roman, not an inch between them. Holy Rome dropped one of Italy's hand and wrapped his arm around the shorter male's waist protectively. Neither spoke.

Britain sighed. "Are all your questions quiet done? I have a few of my own, to say the least." France nodded and told him to go ahead. Britain went over his questions in his head, organizing them before speaking.

"How long has the British Empire ruled here?"

"Since the 1600s." France replied.

"How much of the world does he have under his thumb?"

"All of it, but Poland, Lithuania, Russia, China, and Japan." Holy Rome said.

"Technically, he doesn't have Canada." Italy whispered, tentatively. America pressed his lips into a thin line.

"What do you mean?" Britain raised an eyebrow.

"Well, you see…" The Italian chewed his lip and squeezed the Holy Roman's hand.

"British Empire needless attacked Canada, his own colony," America hissed, venom in his voice. "He wounded Canada really badly, burnt his capital and forests, killed people. France demanded to know why he did it, but British Empire never gave a reason for the attack. Even though France was already in a war, he sent troops and supplies to Canada to help recover and protect him. British Empire kept attacking Canada's coast line.

"He did that for a long time. Until…Canada revolted. He rounded up an army and attacked a harbor where a British fleet was. He burnt every ship, but one, and sent it and its occupants back with a message for British Empire that he was sick of his treatment and would declare war on British Empire if he didn't stop."

"What…was his response?" Britain asked quietly, shocked.

"He response was six fleets of ships filled soldiers, each armed to the teeth." America's eyes burned with hatred. "They fought for ten years, but British Empire defeated him. He punishment him for the attempt the tied him up in the dungeon for five years. Canada escaped on the six year. British Empire is still trying to find him."

Britain pursed his lips. "I see. He has Canada's lands, but not Canada himself." America nodded glumly. The Brit now understood that 'Can. spotted' meant.

"Last we heard, Canada was helping Japan, but there are a lot of rumors flying around." France said. His face was etched with worry and pride, making him look older and more worn. "We only know for sure that he is doing everything he can to hurt British Empire and help those fighting him."

"I understand. Now, I have a question or two about the Guard." Britain shuddered in spite of himself, recalling yesterday. "What is it? What is wrong with the members? I mean, they all looked so…off. Most of those nations, in my world, would refuse to work for me."

"The Guard is British Empire's right-hand men—and Hungary. He sends them to ensure he's winning battles and lead his armies for him, investigate reports for him and gather things and information. Prussia is the leader." Holy Rome said. "I'm a 'junior' member, as _fratello _says."

"Yeah, yeah, Holy Roman Empire isn't like them." Italy nodded then rested his head on the blond's shoulder.

"Most of the 'full' Guard members don't want to be there. They are forced, blackmailed." America told Britain.

"What do you mean, America?"

"He means," France said, "British Empire took something important from them. He'd forcing them to be on the Guard, to protect that important thing."

Britain furrowed his brow. "I still don't understand, sorry."

The other nations exchanged looks. Holy Rome spoke. "It's hard to explain, but…British Empire takes _people_. To force Sweden to join, he kidnapped Finland. Spain, he took Belgium, Netherlands, and Romano." Italy swallowed a lump in his throat at the last name.

"He takes them, threatens to hurt them, if the nation doesn't comply with his demands, and hides them _somewhere_." Holy Rome said.

"That's dirty warfare!" Britain exclaimed. "A horrid thing to do. So he took someone from everyone?"

"No." Italy whispered. "Some of them joined for protection. Switzerland did not have anyone British Empire could take, and he didn't want to fight, so he gave in if he could be on the Guard. Ottoman Empire, too."

'…_did not have anyone'…? _And image of a little, blonde girl with a ribbon in her hair came to Britain's mind._ Oh, yes. I suppose Switzerland hadn't adopted Liechtenstein as his little sister when that happened. I wonder how my Swiss would react to that._

"Alright, then what happened to them? Their eyes, there is no life in them."

"I don't know. One day they were themselves, the next they were not. They act more like themselves when they are alone or in small groups, though." Holy Rome petted Italy's hair absentmindedly. "But never out in public, or around British Empire."

Britain pressed his lips into a thin line. His eyebrows knit together, resembling a black scarf. All that, it sounded familiar, like symptoms of a illness he'd read about somewhere but couldn't quiet recall the name.

Realization hit him like an anvil. Not an illness, a spell, or more specifically a curse.

"Do any of them have a mark on their bodies anywhere? Something that looks like a tattoo on their skin?"

America and France shook their heads. They didn't know.

Holy Roman Empire thought over it for a second then blinked. "Prussia does. On his shoulder. It looks like a shield."

"_Si_! Spain, too! I've seen once before, but his is on his back." Italy chirped. "It had a bird of some kind on it."

Holy Rome nodded. "A shield shape with a bird and snakes I think."

"No! It's vines, or ivy." Italy argued. "Oh! And a circle like the sun, too, with some weird writing on it."

Britain's mouth fell open slightly. His eyes widen. His face paled, and his mouth went dry. His voice came out in a horrified whisper. "What has British Empire done?"

**Ooooo~~~! Spooky~! Well, what did British Empire do? ; ) Well, you'll find our next chapter~ NOT! It's British Empire time! =D**

**Also, question time. Do you guys like how long the chapters are? Are they fine or should they be shorter or longer? Perfect medium?**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer, see Chapter 1**

**Chapter 7**

He blinked his acidy green eyes, looking around. This was not the room he left from, was it? This one was small and lined with books, not his flag. The table merely had an open text on it, not his battle plans and notes.

"England! You're back!" Mint Bunny cried from her hiding spot on the top shelf. "I was worried something awful happened! You were gone for such a long time!" She jumped from her spot and tackled the Brit's head.

The blond raised his hand the grabbed the flying rabbit by her back. He dug his finger nails into her skin. Beads of red welled up on her mint green fur. The nation threw his hand out, releasing Flying Mint in the process.

The rabbit gasped. She hit the wall with a low thud then fell to the floor. Her eyes drooped shut.

"Hmm. A flying rabbit." British Empire raised an eyebrow. "Odd. Something must have happened in the time stream." His voice held not an ounce of hesitation or doubt: All the mythical creatures of his world had been wiped out. He knew they were.

He'd was the one to eradicated them, every last one. The only being still living was Norway's troll. British Empire remembered how the Nordic begged, pleaded on his knees, not to kill it.

It wasn't mercy that allowed the troll to remain, but advantage. So long as the troll stayed with Norway, Norway made an excellent spy. Many times, British Empire sent the Nordic behind enemy lines, and many times he retrieved the information that sealed the end to many nations—even if Norway didn't want to.

Multiple threats made about Iceland and Denmark ensured compliance.

British Empire headed up the stairs without another look back at the limp form against the cold stones.

The Empire pushed open the door and glanced about. The room smelled nice, like perfume and roses. To him, it smelled French. It reminded him of a garden France use to have outside his rulers' castle. They played there once, when they were still young, naïve, children.

He wondered idly, walking around, if this was not somewhere in France's home, this world's France, of course. His France's home is closer to a desert wasteland than the powerful nations he once was.

At least France still remained fun to _play_ _with_. The empire ran his hand over a smooth, gray, box-shaped item. On the glass screen stuck a square of yellow paper. British Empire took the paper away, intrigued.

_The World Meeting is in room 218 of the French Embassy, starts 10 am, sharp. _

There was an address scribbled on the bottom.

"'World Meeting'?" A smirk slipped onto British Empire's lips. "This could be fun." He slipped the address into his pocket. He went to the window and looked out over the bustling cityscape. Cars drove up on winding roads. Lights glowed from buildings standing erect on the horizon.

Maybe finding this 'French Embassy' may be harder than he thought.

_KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!_

"Aye! Britain! Opened up, would ya, mate?" A voice cried with an Australian accent. "I'm here to take ya to the meeting!"

Britannia's gods were shining down on him. He opened the door.

"Howdy." Australia chirped, smiling. "I'm here to make sure you were coming to the me—"

"No, he isn't!" Two other nations shouted, storming towards the Aussie.

"Go away, New Zealand! France said I should get 'im!" Australia snapped. "You too, Tonga. Get going."

Tonga rolled his eyes. "No way. I'm going to escort the lim—I mean Britain." Soon an all-out verbal battle ensued with each nation claiming their right to escort British Empire to the World Meeting.

British Empire watched with amusement as they squabbled. These three were different from his Australia, New Zealand, and Tonga. His three worked hard together and depended on each other. Sometimes British Empire forgot they were all his little pawns, sleeking around for information, of some wrong doing, something with which to black mail another nation.

"Oi! What are you doing?"

The three Pacific Islanders stiffened. "Francis!" They gasped. A blond head of hair British Empire knew well came into view. Francis loomed over the other nations, who shirked back. They looked up at the older man with slight worry, but not fear.

"Didn't you hear me? What are you doing?" Francis crossed his arms over his chest.

"Nothing." Tonga stated. "Just, um…going. Right, guys?" Australia and New Zealand nodded quickly agreement. They each muttered a stuttering farewell to the older nations.

"_Mon Dieu_! I told them not to come!" Francis grumbled. "Australia looks so much like _him _he could have ruined the rest of the meeting! What a terrible host I would be if a allowed that to happen." He threw his hair back over his shoulder. British Empire raised an eyebrow, placing more pieces together in the puzzle before him.

"_Je suis désolé. {I'm sorry,}" _Francis spun around on his heel and grinned broadly. "I told everyone I was going to go make sure you rolled out of bed, my lazy, little Angleterre. I didn't think they'd come try to take my _gloire {glory_} from me!" He laughed.

"It's alright." British Empire said, hiding his irritation well. French, what an ugly language.

"_Oui_. Now come along, Angleterre, the World Meeting with begin soon. We had to cut the last one short, so this one is starting early." Francis started down the hall. British Empire smirked, shutting the door.

He planned to concurred this world in one fall swoop.

*******Hetalia!******

The nations in the room all turned as Francis held the door for British Empire. The empire scanned their faces, committing the new ones to memory. He could see nations that in his world would flinch away or hide if he entered a room look cursorily at him before returning their eyes to their paperwork.

He picked out the Guard easily.

Ottoman Empire's feet rested up on the table. Austria scribbled some notes on a sheet of lined music paper, pausing every so often to listen to the notes inside his head. Hungary's nose nearly pressed against the binding of a book with two men in a loving embrace on the cover. She had a tissue pressed to her nose. Sweden leaned forward on the table with his hands folded, listening to Finland. A small white dog sat in his lap. Spain laughed, jabbing at an enraged Romano in the cheek. Switzerland had his eyes trained on a little girl across the room who spoke with Taiwan.

The only members British Empire failed to see were the two Germanic siblings, Holy Roman Empire and Prussia. A man who resembled Holy Rome sat with his spine straight as a board and hands folded on the table. Italy was next to him, jabbering on and on.

Amongst the chaos, Francis pointed to an empty seat and told British Empire to sit there. The Frenchman said something about not wanting a repeat of yesterday. The empire wondered idly what happened as he slipped into the seat.

"Hey, Britain. Glad to see you're feeling better, eh?" Whispered a soft voice. The Brit looked around for a moment, confused. Was he hearing things? Or maybe a ghost. Or—

"Britain. I'm right here, eh?"

The empire turned his head. He barely concealed his shock.

Canada.

No, not Canada. Not the Canada that plotted against him. Not the Canada that escaped. Not the Canada that left him. Not the Canada that fought back. No, this was a different Canada. The battle scar on his Canada was not evident. The hatred in his Canada's eyes replaced with a kindly look. The one beside him smiled at British Empire.

"Are you alright, Britain? You look kind of mad, eh? I-I'm not Alfred, if that's what you think! I'm Matthew, remember?" Matthew squeezed the bear to his chest. He bit his lip.

"I—"

"Hey, Mattie, is the limey bastard bugging you?"

A shadow fell between the two men. America gritted his teeth and slammed his hand on the table. At this, British Empire glared. This America was strong. He stood tall with an air about him. His glasses gleamed when he turned his head to the Brit.

Not his Canada; Not his America.

Matthew sweat dropped slightly. "A-Alfred, it's fine. We were just talking—"

"Yeah, sure, whatever you say. I bet you were antagonizing him, right, UK?" Alfred glowered. From the other side of the room, Frances head jerked up. Amerique only refereed to Britain as 'UK' when he was really pissed, all the friendly joking and happy verbal jabs and taunts gone.

"Oh, what a big word you used. Do you want a biscuit as a reward?" British Empire growled. He did not like this America. He was snippy, not at all compliant. And worst of all, he held no fear for British Empire.

The vein in the American's face bugled. "Why you—"

Francis darted to the scene. He placed his hands on Alfred's chest. "Amerique, stop this. Go sit down right now_. Faites l'amour pas la guerre_—'Make love not war,' eh?"

The American narrowed his eyes at the Brit. "Whatever, France. Canada, that bastard does anything to piss you off, tell me. I'll kick his fucking ass—I've done it before." Alfred slunk to the other side of the room, flopping down into his chair, glaring at British Empire

******Hetalia!*****

This meeting…British Empire couldn't find a point to it. It seemed like everyone just argued about the foolish topics: who took Southern Italy tomato (it was Spain), Italy's untied tie, beef stew, why was it okay for China to bring in a panda, but not for Estonia to bring his 'mochi,' whatever those were. The list went on and on.

British Empire decided it would be better to take away everyone's freewill in this world. They didn't deserve it, wasting their time with this 'World Meeting.' Finally the fighting stopped with the Holy Rome look-alike slammed his hand on the table and yelled for everyone to shut up.

"Germany sure can be scary, can't he?" Matthew smiled nervously at British Empire.

"'Germany,' huh?" The Brit smirked and muttered to himself. "Must be one of Germania's."

"H-huh?" Matthew pursed his lips. "Of course, he is. Prussia's his brother, remember? Britain, you're acting off today. Are you sick?"

"Hmm. Nope. Fit as a fiddle." British Empire stated as Germany started talking. "Fit as a fiddle." He leaned forward in his chair and rested his chin on his entwined fingers, eyeing the strong-looking blond nation with a calculating gaze.

Matthew swallowed. Something didn't feel right.

Midway through Germany's rant on behavior expected from nations, Norway stood suddenly. His chair clattered to the ground. Every pair of eyes turned to him.

Germany snapped something, but Norway cut him off before he finished. "Who are you?" The room filled with a quiet, questioning air.

"Lukas, what are you doing? You're pissing off Germany! If you go into war, I might be hurt too!" Denmark slammed his fist down. The other Nordic didn't respond.

"I asked you a question. Who are you, really?" The nation stepped around the table. "Tell me."

"Mm. D'd Seal'nd sneak 'n?" Sweden scanned the room. The troll next to Lukas said something in a thick language British Empire couldn't understand. The dog in the Swede's lap jumped onto the table. Her fur stood on end. She growled.

"Answer me." Lukas yelled. Francis took a breath, trying to keep calm. His meeting was falling into shambles—again.

"Lukas, _mon amei_, what are you talking about? Who is here that is not himself?" Francis asked slowly. The other jabbering counties silenced as Lukas narrowed his eyes at British Empire. Francis raised an eyebrow and followed his gaze. "_Mon Dieu_. Lukas listen to—"

A low, dark chuckle filled the room. The hair on the back of Francis' neck stood straight up. His heart skipped a beat before thudding in his chest.

"My, my. Aren't you smart?" British Empire smirked.

"Angle…terre?" Francis stepped towards the Brit.

British Empire continued as if the Frenchman hadn't spoken. "I didn't think anyone would figure it out that fast." He stood slowly. "No. I'm not 'UK,' but I am a Britain."

"B-Britian?" Matthew looked up. Worried clouded his featured. "What are you talking about? Maybe you really are sick. I'll call you brothers, eh? Scotland can come get you. Or Wales—"

Matthew half -gasped half-shrieked.

British Empire wrapped his hand around the curl hair that stuck out of the Canadian's head. He jerked it forward roughly, pulling the man with it.

"Mattie!" Alfred jumped to his feet. "I don't care who the fuck you are, let go of my brother!" The American tensed, ready to attack the UK doppelganger.

"Why don't you be quiet?" British Empire yanked his hand again. Matthew whimpered in pain. "You're not very smart, are you?"

"What did you say?!" Alfred ran at the Brit with his hand curled into his a fist. That was it: This limey bastard was going down!

British Empire's eyes flashed. The chairs he and Matthew had been sitting in floated up then shot at the American with so much force, it knocked him to the wall. The chairs shattered on impact, sending shards of wood at the nations nearest to the wall.

Those unaffected by the shards stared at the British Empire in shock or pulled out their weapons: guns, axes, swords, a wok and ladle, a frying pan, an iron pipe.

"Who are you? Iggy would never do that to me!" Alfred pushed himself up with his legs, keeping his back against the wall.

"'Iggy'? Pff. How stupid your Britain must be to allow a colony to call him that." British Empire mused.

"Hey, dude. I'm gonna tell you something that's gonna blow your mind. I'm not a fucking colony." Alfred sneered. "Haven't been since I kicked Britain's ass. Now, let go of Canada—before I shoot you." He reached into the pocket of his bomber jacket and produced a revolver. He aimed for the Brit's heart.

Other countries, too, aimed their guns at him. Those with bladed-weapons posed them for attack. The rest either stood behind the armed nations or made something with which to defended themselves.

"Really? My. Your Britain is such a pathetic chap." British Empire scoffed.

"You keep saying 'your.' What do you mean-aru?" China asked. The Brit eyes him up and down. This China wasn't as war-torn as his. Actually this China looked relatively weak.

"I mean, I'm not your Britain. I can only assume that your Britain is in my world. My bet is that he's probably dead by now." He paused then his eyes rolled in their socket towards Matthew. "Oh yes. I forgot." He pulled on Matthew's curl again. "This always was your weakest point, even in my world."

"Dammit! Another parallel nation? What the shit?!" Romano swore. "I don't fucking care if it saves another world, I'm not stripping this time, dammit!"

"Ah~! But Lovi! You look so _lindo_, so cute!" Spain giggled, holding the handle of his axe up as a form of protection. Romano, Lovi, threw pens and other office supplies at the Spaniard and yelled at him in Italian that his name was _not_ Lovi! It was Lovino, get it straight, tomato-eating bastard!

British Empire, irked by the interruption, gritted his teeth. "You're all so disrespectful and noisy." The table in front of the Brit and Canadian floated off the ground. It zoomed to the fighting Italian and Spaniard.

"Lovino!"

"Antonio!"

At the sound of their names, the two looked up. Lovino swore and ducked. Antonio gasped and dove to the side. The nations behind them, Hong Kong and Iceland, where not so lucky. They landed on the ground with a thud. Neither moved.

Lukas narrowed his eyes. Denmark gritted his teeth, gripping his axe tighter, as Sweden and Finland hurried over to Iceland and Hong Kong. Taiwan, China, Macau, and the other East Asian countries wore matching expression of disbelief—each of which rage quickly replaced.

British Empire found all their emotions most amusing. "Aren't you all going to attack?"

China moved forward, wok ready.

The Brit's lips twitched. With a great yank, he pulled Matthew in front of him: a human shield. Any attacks or shots done towards British Empire would be forced to go through Matthew first.

"Why is it all the times I'm actually seen, something bad happens?" The Canadian whimpered.

"Well? Go ahead. Shot. Come now. He's a nation, I'm sure a few bullets or slashes won't hurt him _too _badly." British Empire laughed.

"Maybe not. Let's try it on you." The cold metal of a gun barrel pressed against British Empire's temple. He moved his eyes over to the person holding the gun.

Acidy green met bloody red.

"Maybe a hole here? _Ja_, that would look nice." Prussia mused.

"G-Gilbert!" Matthew cried. A wave of worry washed over him.

"So, Not-Britain, let Birdie go, ok?" Gilbert smirked. "If you do, I might be awesomely gracious and let you keep your vital regions." The Brit raised an eyebrow, unafraid.

"Oh, I'm so scared. Are you going to force a wurst down my throat first?"

"Don't mock wurst!" Austria, Prussia, Germany, and other Germanic countries snapped.

British Empire's lips twitched again. These nations, while annoying, were funny, but he would rather have them under his thumb, like his nations, cowering when his name even mentioned within the same room.

"Whatever, bastard," Gilbert gritted his teeth. "One more warning: let Mattie go. What do you have against him anyway?"

"Not him so much as Canada itself." British Empire said idly, giving the curl a tug. "You see, my Canada did the awful thing of revolting against my rule. I'm still a bit angry about it, actually. I guess I just cannot control my rage at times."

"Yeah, I don't fucking care. Release the Canadian." Gilbert rolled his eyes.

"Do it, dude. Prussia's a crazy-ass nut of an ex-nation." Alfred smirked. "I'm not in a practically forgive mood either—and neither is the rest of the world." As if on cue, the rest of the world narrowed their eyes, readjusting they weapons. "I'll give you 'till three to let Matthew go."

"I dare you to shoot me." The Brit grinned wickedly.

"One." Alfred pulled back the hammer.

British Empire jerked his hand again.

"_Zwei_." Gilbert hissed, pressing the barrel closer.

"Gilbert, Alfred, this is not necessary! Please, whoever you are, release Canada. I do not want bloodshed, _mon ami_." Francis pleaded. As much as he liked picking on his Britian, he couldn't allow someone who looked just like him to die—especially not in his embassy! Think of the paper work! Of the stained carpet!

The empire smirked. "I _like _bloodshed."

Gilbert, Alfred, and the other firepower armed nations pulled the trigger, aiming for the empire's exposed head.

"Three."

_BANG!_

British Empire fell backwards, releasing Matthew. The Canadian's jaw hit the table with a sharp _click _of molars slamming together. The Brit hit the ground, blood seeping from the multiple holes in his body. Gilbert put his gun away and hurried to Matthew. He set the blond up, steadying him.

"Mattie, you okay?" Alfred skidded to a stop. "Did that asshat hurt you?"

"Just my pride." Matthew muttered, rubbing the spot where his curl came out of his head. He winced. Well, mostly just his pride. Gilbert put his arm under Matthew's and pulled him to his feet.

The Prussian led the younger nation away from the scene. "Kesese. I hope that parallel world didn't want him back."

The low, dark chuckle filled the room again. "It doesn't really matter, now does it?"

Every nation in the room froze.

**Oh noes! :U What happened? How can that asshat be alive?! How?! HOW I SAY!? Oh wait, I know! =D The rest of you lot, though…Are going to have to wait cause I'm switching back to Britian next chapter! ;)**

**Also, just a note. I do NOT think that Canada's curl is like Italy's or Romano's. I DO think, however, that it would hurt to have it pulled. So you sickos that are thinking your dirty, BECan thoughts, it's NOT like that! **


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer? See chapter 1.**

**Chapter 8:**

The nations of British Empire's world stared at Britain as he muttered under his breath. None risked stepping forward. Though Britain was not their British Empire, the resemblance to the monster was still too uncanny, the memory of punishments from the past still too fresh, to force themselves to move.

Finally, Britain forced himself to calm down. "I think I know what happened to the Guard members. I know what he did to them." The Brit looked up with a fire in his green eyes. "There is certain old curse that people of the past use to place on others, usually servants, but I've heard of it used on wives and children, too. It binds their freewill so they can't do anything without permission from the caster. From what you are tell me, I'm beginning to think British Empire placed a slightly different version of that spell on the Guard members to where they still exert some freewill of their own, but are still greatly bound by the curse.

"In my world, and probably in this one too, that spell was made illegal to use many years ago—just after my birth, actually." Britain frowned. He'd spent his life following the rules of magic, not to say he'd never used black magic before, but to use a curse _outlawed _by the strongest magical beings in the world was something he'd never do.

"Doesn't surprise me a bit," France stated. "There are few laws British Empire has yet to…break."

"Child sodomy?" Holy Rome suggested listlessly. Italy shuddered, wrapping his arms around the Holy Roman. Britain decided to finish the current subject before pursuing that one.

"That aside, what can we do to help them, Britain?" America asked.

"That all depends," Britain said, "on what the mark looks like. If the curse is weak enough, I might be able to break it myself, if not, I can find the necessary ingredients to do so."

"I feel there should be a 'but' at the end of that." Holy Rome commented warily.

"There is."

"Great."

"If the curse is weak, I might be able to break it, _but _I need to know if it is weak enough, or if it's even the correct curse. I need to know what the mark looks like." Britain ran a hand over his messy hair. "I doubt I could simply ask one of them to show it to me without raising a few eyebrows."

No one argued with that. Britain was so different from British Empire that it surprised himself that he made it this long.

"I could do it," Italy said suddenly. "I go talk to Spain sometimes; I could check. He sleeps nude anyway, I could go late tonight."

"_Si_. I'll talk to Prussia about it. It wouldn't be odd, seeing as we're both members, if I asked about it." Holy Roman Empire stated. "Veneziano and I could try to memorize what it looks like. Is that okay?"

"Yes. There is just one thing though. Italy, you said you saw a circle, like the sun, right? Could you describe it?" Britain asked. The Italian titled his head in thought. He raised his fingers, trying to draw the something in the center of the circle. The Italian chewed his lip and shook his head.

"I'm sorry, I can't describe it, but…" The Northern Half of Italy' turned to America. America clenched his jaw.

"He can't, but I can." The American swallowed, tugging at the end of his shirt.

"If we are talking about that circle, I can too," France blurted out. He rolled up the sleeve of his uniform, relieving a tattoo-like mark. Britain reached forward and grabbed the Frenchman's arm.

"Whoa."

The mark was a large circle with a tree inside. The tree though, was upside down. A small white bird lied down in the leaves, vine snarled around its wings. A large black bird with sharp talons sat among the roots holding a smaller circle in its beak. Inside the circle was a rune. A rune that Britain knew all too well.

"Do you all see this…?" The Brit touched tree. "This depicts life, but it's upside-down, so it means death as well. And the white bird is freewill, which should be flying freely, but it's captured. And this bird, it's control. This mark was designed to prevent France's freewill towards death."

"_Oui_. I know." France said. "British Empire put it there so he would never lose his favorite pet." The Frenchman spat the last word; venom and hatred dripped from his voice.

Britain sent a pitied glance at the older nation. Death was the one granted thing of all beings. The freedom to die in the only true universal freedom.

Britain tapped the circle in the black bird's beak. "Then this circle, the rune inside it. That runes says British Empire. Do all the marks have this rune?"

America chewed his lip. "Yeah, mine does."

"Is it just like France's?"

"…Yes, it is."

"May I see it?"

The American's eyes flashed with something, uneasiness or fear. He crossed his arms firmly over his chest. He turned away, staring out the window.

"Okay. I don't need to." Britain smiled sincerely. "Italy, Holy Rome, there's something very important I want you to check when you try to see Spain and Prussia's marks. You said something coiled around them, find out what, and any other detail you can gather, but the rune and that are important."

"Right!" Italy shouted, pumped. "I already have a plan!"

"Well, you'd better hurry up with it. The Guard leaves tomorrow," France stated.

"I am!" The Italian smiled widely then darted out the door. "Be back soon!" Holy Rome swore and ran after him. France pinched the bridge of his nose. America covered a smile.

"Italians are Italians, no matter the world," Britain chuckled then sighed. "I wonder how my world is doing." He ran a hand through his hair.

"It's probably in shambles." France said. "I can almost promise it, if British Empire is there."

"You make it sound like he'd destroy the entire city."

"He would." America and France chorused.

Britain winced. "I sure hope he doesn't. Francis would be awfully pissed at me if I destroyed his beloved Paris."

"'Francis'…?" America raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, sorry." Britain laughed, rubbing the back of his head. "I mean France. Git picked a name so close to his normal one, so you can't blame me."

"I thought you said I was the French Republic in your world," France questioned.

"You are. A few years back, we all decided it would be easy if when we were in public to call each other by names most humans are used to heard instead of our actual names—that and 'America' was become a common girls name in the States, so America got quiet a few odd looks." The Brit laughed to himself.

"What's Italy's name? Can I ask that?" France asked.

"You already did," Britain pointed out, but answered anyway, "Feliciano Vargas. You're Francis Bonnefoy. I'm Arthur Kirkland. My America, he choose Alfred F. Jones, or something equally silly." Britain could see in the younger America's eyes he liked the name just as much as Alfred himself. France, too, was rubbing his chin fondly at the name. An idea came to the island nation.

He reached into his pocket. "I have a question for you too. Have telephones been invented in this world, or cameras?"

"Of course." France replied. "Why?"

"I assume they're still big and bulky in this world." Britain pulled out his cell phone.

"That's not a camera or a phone."

"No, it's both." The Briton turned it on, briefly explaining what a cell phone was and its function. He flipped through the picture, finding the one Francis took of himself (it was a nice picture actually). "Ah-ha, here it is."

"This is a picture of my America and Canada—and France, he's in the background if you look."

In the picture, America had his arm around Canada's shoulders, holding up 'Victory' fingers. He smiled arrogantly at the camera, while his brother's smile more humbly. Kumuijari—Britain could never the bear's name—stared at the camera with a titled head, midway in asking 'who?' when the picture was snapped. In the back, unknowingly in the middle of a being beat over the head by Hungary, was France. He still smiled that flirtatious grin of his, when with a frying pan colliding with his skull.

America stared hard at the picture, as if committing it to memory. Or maybe, just committing himself to memory.

Britain took the phone back and placed back in his pocket after turning it off. "There are others on there, but that's the most flattering." In his mind's eye, he could see one of said unflattering pictures: Alfred had been half-sleep, his glasses nearly fell off the tip of his nose and bags under his eyes. He flipped Britain off in the picture, mid-yawn.

America shook his head suddenly. "I have to go." He paused at the door and said Britain's name to ensure he had the older nation's attention. Once he felt the Brit's green orbs on his back, the American spoke. "Stop treating me like I'm a child, Britain. I'm not a child." America shut the door.

"America," France sighed, leaving Britain confused both by the Frenchman and the American. "_Oui_. I must go to. If I were you, I'd stay put here, Angleterre. You have proven yourself not the type to do like the British Empire does."

"From what I've heard, I don't think I could allow myself to do such things." Britain stated. France looked the other nation up and down.

"Yes, you're much more pure than British Empire. You have a _cœur,_ a heart. British Empire doesn't." France smiled at Britain. The Brit returned the gesture.

****Hetalia****

Italy smiled happily to himself. This was going to go great! He'd find out about Spain's mark, Britain would fix him, they'd all find Romano and the other kidnapped nations, and then they'd live happily ever after! Wait, wasn't he forgetting something…? Oh yeah! Before the happily ever after, British Empire would have to die~ How silly of him to forget!

The Italian was so wrapped up in his thoughts, he almost walked right past the Spain's room. The boy laughed a little before adjusting the basket he had to his hip and knocking. A few shuffling noises and the door opened.

Spain looked a little surprised to see Italy standing at the door. Italy hide his disappointment well: Spain was still wearing a shirt.

"Oh, hello. Do you need something?" Spain asked.

"No, may I come in?" Italy poked his head around the Spaniard into the room. Spain shrugged and stepped aside. The inside of the room looked like the rest of the Guards' room Italy had seen: a bed, a desk, a trunk, and nothing much else. The walls were bare, save for a small, torn map of Spain tacked up on the wall head the head of the bed.

Italy strolled to the bed and flopped down, setting his basket beside him. Spain shut the door.

"Why are you here, Italy?" Spain asked, his voice flat.

"I wanted to see you, of course!" Italia Veneziano crawled onto his knees on the bed and hugged his older brother around the neck. "I never see you, and I miss you! Do you miss me?"

Spain was silent for a moment them said, "Yes, you and Romano." Italy hung to Spain for a while, without speaking. They missed the swearing Italian, both of them. Italy hadn't seen him for nearly a hundred years or so, not since British Empire took control. Italia remembered vividly how both of them fought against British Empire.

British Empire's army had been approaching fast. Austria and Hungary and Spain all agreed for both Italy's safety it was best to send them to their own home. From Rome, the Italians watched as their former protectors and bosses fell to British Empire.

Just before Spain's final battle, the Italian brothers started raising their armies. Though both boys were still children, they were nations first and foremost. They were descendents of the great Roman Empire! Letting someone like British Empire take control over them wasn't an option. The thought was a disgrace! That's what Romano kept yelling, at least.

Italy knew, though, the real reason both he and Romano were so fiery in their need to defend themselves.

British Empire had taken the people both countries cared about. Belgium, Netherlands, Spain. Hungary and Austria. Even Holy Rome at the time was losing in his battle with the fellow empire. While Romano would die before admitting it, both Italys felt the need to avenge their friends. Neither wanted to lose another person they cared about, like when Grandpapa Rome died.

Even if it was a fruitless effort.

Italy was taken down in a matter of months. A few small naval fleets kept the British away from Sicily and Sardinia, but they too were concurred.

Veneziano sighed, releasing Spain. "Well, I'm sure Romano's fine, where ever he is."

Spain didn't speak. Italy pursed his lips then gasped. "Oh right. I remember now." Italy pulled the basket into his lap. He removed the top and grinned broadly.

Tomatoes, just to that point between barely ripe and rotten.

"I brought these for you, big brother!" The younger brother offered up a red tomato, nearly bursting with juice. Spain's eyes shone for a moment. It was rare for Guard members, or most anyone in the household, to have food from their homes like this.

"Ita, did you…?"

"What? No! I wouldn't steal" _and get caught._ the Italian added to himself. "Theses were about to go bad, so I thought to myself, 'Italy, who do I know who loves tomatoes and is my big brother who just returned from a long trip? Oh right! Spain!'" Italy found himself a smaller tomato and started nibbling at it, watching his brother. Spain rubbed the tomato against his shirt, and Italy prayed that it would burst open, forcing the Spaniard to remove it.

No such luck.

Spain took a bite. A look of nostalgia crossed his face. A smile donned his lips.

This was the Spain Italy remembered, not the one Holy Rome told him about at the briefing. Not the one who never smiles or laughs, but the one who could easily lose himself in a ripe, red tomato as he could a glass of wine.

"Wonderful, Italia. Thank you very much." Spain spoke around a mouthful.

"Veh. You're welcome, _frat—_big brother." Italy nearly slapped himself. He didn't want to lose Spain by speaking in Italian. It was difficult though when he was around family or Holy Rome, no matter how long he had the rules imposed on him.

The two sat in silence, eating the fruit, for some long moments. Finally Spain broke it, asking how Italy had been. Italy nearly spilled everything about Britain and the parallel world. He clamped down on his tongue to silence himself. Spain didn't remark at the move. It wasn't usually for someone to stop themselves from saying something.

"I got to spend some time with Greece the other day when I was getting firewood. He seemed alright; At least Egypt was there too. I think Greece gets lonely, don't you?" Italy asked.

"Hmm…I don't know. I haven't seen Greece in a long time," the Spaniard stated. "Ottoman Empire goes to visit them, Greece and Egypt, though, once or twice."

"Greece mentioned that. He said Ottoman Empire said he kind of missed Egypt—and Greece too, but not as much." Italy smiled. "I laughed at that. Hmm, what else? Oh, right! I talked to Denmark, and he says he thinks there might be some booze being shipped in from his home. He was super excited, so was Iceland and Norway."

"Good for him." Spain turned another tomato over. Italy glanced at the basket. Only two left. What to do? What to do? An idea came to the Italian. He plucked up a tomato and tossed it in the air, catching it.

"Isn't it? Ve. So, are you excited to head to China? I think it'll be pretty this time of year, don't you?"

Toss, catch.

"I've been there this time of year. It is."

"I wish British Empire would let me go somewhere." Toss, catch. "It's kind of boring here. I could lead an army. I've done it before."

Toss, catch.

"I don't think you'd like the warfront, Ita. It's worse than when you were little."

Toss, catch.

"You never know. I would have never guessed I would be stuck working under a Brit when I was younger, but look at me now."

Toss, _SPLAT!_

Spain blinked. Tomato's juice rolled down his face. Red drops fell onto his shirt. Italy smiled inwardly as he jumped to his feet.

"Oh my Gosh! I'm so sorry, big brother! I didn't mean to do that!" He lied.

"It's okay, Italy. Just be more careful next time, 'kay?" Spain pulled part of a tomato from his hair. A seed landed on the Spaniard's nose. Spain scrunched up his face , trying to remove the yellow seed.

"I'm still sorry. Take off your shirt, I'll go wash it." Italy chew his lip. _Please, please, please…_

"Okay. British Empire gets mad when we're not dressed as 'proper lady and gentlemen.'" Spain stood, grabbing the hem of his shirt. Italy glued his eyes to where he thought the mark was, the middle of his lower back.

*******HETALIA!*******

Holy Rome stood outside his brother's door. He felt nervous and wiped his hands on his cloak. He steeled himself: He was an empire, for God's sake; there was nothing he could not do!

Holy Roman Empire knocked on the wood with his knuckle.

"I'm coming."

The door opened. Prussia looked down at his brother. The Prussian raised an eyebrow and leaned on the door frame. "What?"

"I want to talk to you."

"About?"

"Stuff."

"About?"

"Stuff."

"_About?_"

"_Stuff._"

Prussia smirked. "You're so damn stubborn." He moved aside and gestured for the empire to enter. The blond nodded as he pasted his brother. Holy Rome sat down on the chest at the foot of Prussia's bed, his normal spot.

"What do you want, Holy Roman Empire? This better be important."

"It might be." Holy Rome crossed one leg over the older. "I wanted to know what its like as a 'full' Guard member."

The Prussian's stance remained same, aloof, uncaring, but his eyes flashed with worry for a moment. "It's not…fun."

"How so?"

"We just have to go places. We don't have time to visit with friends or family—or a certain Italian maid." Prussia raised an eyebrow when Holy Rome stiffened. "Besides, battles can be boring, half the time we don't even get to go fight. We just yell orders. No fun at all."

"But, you do get to leave. Sweden even has the chance to visit his home." Holy Rome pointed out. Prussia pursed his lips.

"A chance. I think the Swede's gonna get the rug pulled out from under him, once he sees how bad his home is." The albino frowned. "I don't think he'll go from the Polish warfront to go sightseeing."

"You still can escape form British Empire, at least a little. I can't step foot outside the property without being punished." The Holy Roman crossed his arms and uncrossed his legs.

"It's your choice if you want to, Holy Rome, not mine." Prussia waved his hand around causally. "Anything else?"

_Now!_ Holy Rome pointed at his brother's shoulder. "Your tattoo. Can I see it? I don't want something stupid branded into my skin."

Prussia chuckled and began to roll up his sleeve. "I would advise against making these kind of decisions based on the appearance of this, brother." (*)

******Hetalia!******

**Wordy, wordy, wordy! UGH! **

**(*): This remark actually was inspired by a remark made by my teacher in high school when we went to visit a college and a kid decided he was going to go there because he liked the game console….XD**


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer, see chapter 1.**

**Chapter 9 **

"A shield shape, with a dove like France's, only the dove is held down with chains." Holy Rome said. "And the dove had a key in its beak."

"And Spain's had that big, black bird with the rune in its beak, too!" Italy chirped, handling a picture he drew of it to Britain. The Brit looked over it. His mouth pressed into a line.

"This is interesting. This is certainly the curse I was speaking of, but as I thought, British Empire edited it a bit. All the Guard members have the key to their freedom from the curse. If they want, they can escape." Britain told the Italian, Holy Roman, and Frenchman. America had not yet returned.

"They don't though, because British Empire is threatening them," France said, "holding someone they care about hostage."

"I'm to believe so." Britain sighed.

"Poor Big Brother Spain!" Italy cried. "That's horrible!" While he didn't say it aloud, Holy Rome felt a pang of pity for Prussia. What could he be protecting? Himself, probably, like Switzerland. Still, though…

Britain pursed his lips. He had a question that had been nagging at him for the whole day. Might as well ask it now. "France."

The nation looked at him.

"Why did America say not to treat him like a child? What did he mean that he wasn't?"

The parallel nations jerked then stiffen. They exchanged looks.

"What? What is it?" Britain pressed. His stomach twisted.

Italy winced and slipped his hands down the fabric of Holy Rome's cloak. He swallowed. Holy Roman Empire turned his head to Veneziano, watching him pick at a loose strand. France took a steeling breath.

The Frenchman released the breath, running a hand through his hair. "He said that, because…he is not a child." Britain raised an eyebrow, confused, for France to continue. "I…this I not a topic I like to talk about, but…in 1867, America revolted against British Empire. He built up his economy, acquired more land, and raised an army—he _grew up_—all behind British Empire's back. In that exceptionally short time, America aged into a young man. His revolt failed, though, and British Empire put a curse on him, reverting his age, as punishment. British Empire takes if off sometimes, when he what's to 'play' with America." Something, pity and regret, flashed in France's eyes. He stopped speaking, his mind elsewhere. Acid welled up in Britain's throat; He swallowed it hard.

"My America grew up in only few years too." Britain said to fill the silence. He bit his lip, mulling over the information France gave him. He realized something. "You said 1867?"

"_Oui_."

"Odd. In my world, that was when I enacted the British North America Acts. They started the, I suppose you could call it this, independence of Canada. July 1st, Matthew's birthday, if I remember correctly." Britain told them. "It united a few of Matthew's provinces. The first step to him having his own foreign polices and sovereignty. I wonder…"

"'Matthew'…?" France echoed. "That is Canada's name in your world, isn't it?"

"Yes. Mathew Williams."

A small smile played on France's lips. "_Mathieu_. I like it."

"I'm confused." Italy stated loudly. Britain blinked, recalling that neither Italy nor Holy Rome had been there when he explained human names. He quickly explained them to the two nations.

Before they could ask any question, Britain continued with his thought. "I wonder. Do you all think it's possible the reason your America stared to revolt in that year was because it corresponded with the British North American Acts in my world?"

"I don't understand. Are you saying, maybe, our world is trying to become more like yours?" Holy Roman Empire asked.

"No, and yes. If your British Empire went back in time and actually did change time to were American won't revolt in the 1700's, then the Flow of Time is messed up in your world. Do you follow me?" The Brit asked. "Time naturally tries to fix itself, so maybe Time tried to put itself back on its course by setting the stage for America to revolt, even if its on the date that his brother started in my world. I'm sorry if this is confusing."

"No, I understand you." The Holy Roman said.

"I don't!" Italy whined. "What do mean? Can Time only make nations revolt at certain times or something?"

"I don't know. Even back in the day, I'd never dabble that deep into pure black magic." The Brit licked his lips. "De-aging anyone, especially a nation, preventing death, taking freewill. I would never do that, not to anyone."

******Hetalia!******

America felt an icy hand grip his stomach. The hand turned slowly, making him sick.

How could this Britain be so nice, while his was a devil straight from Hell?

His voice lacked that sadist amusement British Empire's was laced with. America felt comfortable around this one. He didn't feel like the next mistake he made would throw him into a world of misery and pain. His skin didn't crawl with disgust when this one looked at him.

When America met Britain's eyes, he didn't see evil plans or a constant remind of what happened to him and Canada, of their failures; he saw something nice, warm, caring even.

Why do they have to look so much alike? It wasn't fair. This Britain, he reminded America so, so much of how his Britain was—no, how his _England_ was. England, British Empire once told him to call him that; No matter how strong or how much of the world he controlled, America could always call him England.

The blond bit down hard on his lip. He didn't cry when British Empire made him leave his homeland behind to live in London. He didn't cry when Canada was attacked. He didn't cry when Canada ran away. He didn't even shed a tear when British Empire punished _him _for revolting.

He wasn't going to cry now.

America wasn't scared of the past.

FLASHBACK

The American stared in shock at British Empire. "Y-You what?! Why did you attack Canada! What did he do?"

"You shouldn't ask what I did if you already knew." The Brit said idly, picking at his nails.

"What did Brother do?"

"Hmm? That is none of your concern. Now, be off in your studies." The empire shooed him out the door then slammed it in the younger blond's face.

*******HETALIA!******

America elbowed his way through the crowd. After shoving his elbow into someone's crotch, earning a breathy swear, he finally made it to the front. He hadn't seen his brother in years, not since the late 1780's.

France looked down when the American stepped beside him. He winced. "America, go back."

"Why? I want to see Canada." America snapped, crossing his arms.

"No. No, you don't want to see Canada like this."

"Why not?"

France pursed his lips. He put his hands on America's shoulder and turned the boy around. Pushing America, France forced the child into the crowd. Annoyed, the child stared struggling against the Frenchman. Gritting his teeth, America threw his leg back, hitting France in the shin.

Running past him, America once again forced his way through the crowd of humans and nations. The heavy footsteps of British soldiers, the rattle of chains, the mutters all around the blond seemed to mute when his blue eyes fell on his brother.

Canada had aged thanks to the war. He now looked in his late teens, early twenties. His hair was a little longer, tied back into a stubby pony tail. His purple eyes, the only feature of the twins' faces that had ever been different, stared straight ahead. At least one eye did. Half of America's brother's face was covered by bandages. A patch of blood had bled through.

France caught up to America then. This time, America let the older nation lead him away.

******Hetalia!*****

It took two days for America to force the image of his brother from his mind. It confused him. Canada lost, right? Shouldn't he be sad, dejected? Why had his brother held his head so high? Like he wasn't walking into defeat. That is what confused America so much.

He paused as he turned the hallway to British Empire's room. The door was ajar. America heard soft moaning. He bit his lower lip. Sometimes, he knew, British Empire 'entertained' human girls, a maid or other servant. The American hoped she wasn't one of the human girls he liked. After a night with British Empire, the girl tended to never be seen again.

Then America realized something: he recognized that moaning, that voice.

"Canada…?"

The boy steeled his courage and crept to the door, looking in.

His breath silently hitched in his throat; his eyes widened in shock.

His brother's wrist were shackled together. The Canadian's teeth gritted together. His face in a wince. He'd been striped of his clothing. Even the bandage over his face was gone, revealing a long, thin wound running from Canada's hair line, jumping over his eye, traveling down his cheek, and ending at his jaw.

British Empire was on top of him, his lips against the Cananda's neck.

Canada let out a loud gasp, biting down hard on his lip, as the Brit bit his neck. Blood welled up from the lip. His eyes opened a crack, then widen when they noticed the boy in the door.

British Empire slipped his hand up and wrapped his fingers around the curl coming out of Canada's head. Swallowing, the Canadian mouthed, "Go! Run!" The empire gave the curl a yank. Canada let out a sound of pain.

"Go! Run! Quick!" He mouthed again. This time, America took his older brother's advice.

******Hetalia******

America doubled over, panting. He ran and ran and ran. That awful scene replaying over and over in his minds eye. He wasn't stupid: he knew actually what British Empire was doing to his twin, but why?

Canada revolted, big deal. Make him work as a servant or something. That'd work, right? What British Empire did was…was…it was…He didn't even know! Disgusting, horrible, over the top!

America had always believed British Empire was a good brother to them, if strict, but now he began questioning it. Would he have done the same to him if America revolted? No, no way. Of course he wouldn't do that…

Well, England wouldn't. British Empire, on the other hand, he just witnessed it.

A knot twisted in America's stomach. He let out an unstable breath. Tears pricked his eyes. No. If Canada could handle all that without crying, then so could America!

That is what the American kept telling himself over and over when British Empire leaned down and whispered in his ear, "Disobey me like your brother did, the same thing will happen to you, too."

_I can handle this, I can handle this, I can handle this…_

******Hetalia!******

America looked up at his brother. A thick layer of clouds covered the night sky and moon. A perfect night for an escape. Canada bend down and pulled his twin brother into a hug.

It shouldn't have been like this. They were twins, the North American brothers, they should look the same age, ally with each other, not part ways yet again.

Canada pushed himself up. "You sure you don't want to come with me, eh?"

America shook his head, glancing at the dark windows of British Empire's castle. "I…maybe he'll straighten up. I…I think he needs me, Canada. I'm sorry." A sad look crossed the older twin's face.

"Denial is a more dangerous enemy than any empire or army." Canada patted his brother's head. "I love you, brother."

"I love you, too, Canada." The American forced a smile.

"I'll be back, once British Empire falls."

America watched the darkness swallow his twin. His brother was wrong. America didn't deny a thing. He just didn't want to see Canada in that pain again, looking so weak.

His resolve was set.

******Hetalia!******

The rain fell over them. America fell back into the mud. He breathed heavily. His head spun. All around him, soldiers, Americans, on the ground, dead. Though he knew it wasn't actually his fault, America felt guilt well up in him. Those men so bravely left their homes, jobs, farms, and families to come fight with him, and he let them down. He promised they'd win, return with independence on their side, and he lied.

British Empire loomed above him, a gun pointed at America. His own weapon had been thrown a few feet away. The Brit's eye shone with a cold, sharp look. His eyes lacked emotion, impossible to decipher his inner thoughts.

America knew he didn't want to hear his former protector's thoughts, though. British Empire, surely, was planning every possible punishment out in his mind, ensuring they be the most painful ones possible.

Lightning flashed across the dark clouds. The rain increased.

"Eight years, you put up a good fight." British Empire hissed. Red soldiers crowded behind him, their guns poised.

The younger nation didn't speak.

"But, this is the end, I'm afraid." British Empire pulled the trigger.

******Hetalia!******

America shook himself out of his memories. No need to dwell on the past, and if his memories kept going down that path, his punishment for revolting would come to mind, and the colony already had enough nightmares.

Taking a steadying breath, America knocked on the door before opening it.

"Then what's Greece's first name?" Italy bounced on his toes.

"Hercules." Britain looked annoyed with all the questions, while France looked amused at the other nation's resilience. Holy Rome leaned backing a chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. America had ready had an idea what was going on.

"Ottoman Empire's! What's Ottoman Empire's name?"

Britain snickered to himself. "Turkey."

"'Turkey'?" The word escaped America's mouth without a thought.

An image of the wild game bird came to America's mind. Who would want that has his name? Sure, it was smart bird with somewhat pretty plumage, and tasted pretty good, but to name yourself after it, especially an Asian nation? Was Britian's Ottoman Empire crazy?

"Hey, America!" Italy hurried over and shut the door behind him, smiling toothily. "Mr. Britain was just telling us a little bit more about his world. I'm named Feliciano Vargas! Cool, huh?"

"Very?" The American chuckled, unsure what to say. Italy spun around, remembering something. He tailed America to the group. As the North American nation sat, the Italian flopped onto Holy Roman Empire's lap.

Taking the lapse in Veneziano's endless talking to his advantage, France asked. "Angleterre, I've meaning to ask you something—"

"Me, too!" Italy piped. "But big brother can go first!" The Italian wrapped his arm around Holy Rome's shoulders.

"_Merci_, Italy." France sweat dropped slightly. "What I want to know is how do you think you're going to make it home?"

Britain blinked. "Oh, yes, that. Well, traveling between worlds isn't as hard as you'd think, at least it's not as hard time travel. I've done it several times."

A visit to the world where everyone is half cat and there is hundred-some-odd Frances, a pop in on the world were all the nations are girls, the quickest possible stop in that world were everyone attended an American high school together (he still had nightmares about that one)…Going to those worlds and home was never a problem.

But he had his spell room then.

"The travel spell I'd need requires a few ingredients that might be hard to acquire." Britain said. He moved around the maps until he found a small one, flipped it over, and picked up a pen.

_1. A large, bronze pot_

_2. Threads from a handmade Persian rug_

_3. A blue, duck-mouth alligator scale_

_4. An Egyptian lightning lily_

_5. Spit of a calf_

_6. Witches hazel extract_

_7. Three coins from a lost traveler's pocket_

_8. A splash of goat's milk_

The parallel nations looked over Britain's shoulder.

"There is a big bronze pot in the kitchen—and goat milk." Italy chirped. "Lost humans end up here some times, and British Empire takes everything from them for trespassing, I think Holy Rome knows were he keeps them?" The Holy Roman nodded.

"_Oui_. Egypt keeps a little flower garden behind where he and Greece work. He might just have the lily." France suggested. "The witches hazel, too.

"Ask Demark about the cow spit, too. He does work in the with the livestock, after all." America stated.

"I might be hard to find the scale, though. It's a bother in my world to locate even." Usually, Britain had to ask Flying Mint or Tink to help him find Alfonzo, the only blue, duck-mouth alligator he knew. Lots of purple ones around Britain's house, but so few spells call for purple, duck-mouth alligator scales, and the blue bloke enjoys hiding in the murkiest part of Scotland's bogs, of all places.

"Not really." Holy Rome commented. "There's a stuffed one near the door, next to the dragon."

"You mean the blue thingy under the green flying bunny thingy?" Italy asked.

"'Flying…bunny…thingy'?" Britain swallowed. "He killed Flying Mint Bunny?"_ British Empire must have made it were everyone has Sight like Norway and me. Dead or not, they couldn't see Flying Mint without it. _

France shrugged. "Well, there is a green rabbit with wings hanging from the ceiling, so yes?" Britain winced. Poor, poor Flying Mint Bunny…

"I'm going to assume there's a Persian rug in this place, too?" The Brit pushed the image of the magical bunny away.

Pointing down, Holy Rome said, "Look under your feet."

Britain glanced down at the thick, ornate carpet. A smile crept onto his face. He might just make it home after all.

**This chapter, I find it choppy… ~_~ *sigh* Oh well, this part is the part I haven't fully figured out yet, so let's see what happens, eh?**

**Also, a guest reviewer had the idea of calling our little parallel nation America 'Alternate-America' AA. Since I can't PM him/her, I'm going to saw that is awesome name. :) Disclaimer, see chapter 1**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer? See chapter 1**

**Chapter 10**

Philippines gave Italy a strange look as he dragged a bronze pot with a few jugs of goats' milk in it out of the kitchen, but didn't bother to comment. Portugal took that job.

"Italia, what are you…?" He titled his head.

"Oh! Mr. Britia—British Empire—said for me to bring him these." Italy said, trying his hardest to look somber.

"I see. Here, let me help." Portugal reached forward, picking up the pot. Italy swore inwardly. It would be too risky to have any more people involved than there already were. The Italian tore the pot and milk out of the Portuguese's hands. He held it over his head, showing he didn't actually need any help.

"I'm _not_ a weakling." Italy snapped. He felt a pang of guilt in his stomach at the look on Portugal's face.

"I'm sorry, Veneziano." He sighed. "Come on, Philippines, I think he can handle it." The Portuguese spun around on his heels and headed back to the kitchen.

The Filipino frowned. "Be careful, okay?"

"I will be." Italy wanted so much to tell them that he had nothing to worry about.

******Hetalia!******

Italy pushed open the door with his shoulder, walked in, and set the pot on the table in front of Britain.

"I got the pot and milk, Britain!" He chirped.

Britain strode over and smiled. "Good work, lad." He patted the Italian's shoulder. As the older nation started checking the pot for cracks and ensuring that the milk was goat's, Italy shuffled his feet idly. This was good of time as any, He supposed.

"Ve, Britain? I have a question, about your world."

"Hmm?"

"It's just…Ve, I mean…" Italy chewed his lip. Britain looked up, raising an eyebrow. The Italian took a deep breath. "How did your Italy survive, without Holy Rome?"

Britain pursed his lips. "I…can't really answer. Austria would know better than me. I don't think mine learnt of Holy Roman Empire's death until a little while after the fact, actually. But until then, I believe, he had been waiting for Holy Rome to return. Sometimes, I think he'll still waiting."

"O-oh. That's sad." Italy felt a tear in his eye.

"Yes. It is." Britain's lips turned upward. "But I think he's gotten over it, a little bit, thanks to Germany and Japan."

"'Germany' is that person you thought Holy Rome was."

"Yes. Germany is a frightening strong nation, considering he's only two hundred some odd years old; He nearly killed me by cutting off imports and took half of France's body, all in the same war." Britain shuttered slightly. "Germany is scary at times."

"Then why could I be friends with him?" Italy picked a fuzzy ball off his apron.

"Honestly, I don't know. Defense, maybe? Italy is a confusing country, no offense." Britain added quickly.

Veneziano giggled. "It's okay. So, Japan, too?"

"Yup. Germany, Italy, and Japan allied together against, well, the rest of the world, but mostly America, France, Russia, China, and me in the Second World War. Oh, and Canada too, I think."

"Wow. Did I win?"

"Uh, no."

"Maybe next time, then!"

"Please don't say that…"

*****Hetalia!*****

France hummed an old tune to himself. He had not had this much fun in decades. He was breaking a multitude of rules, speaking French, conspiring against British Empire. If only he had a glass of wine and a pretty lady…

The nation jerked to a stop beside the garden tool shed. Ottoman Empire stood beside Egypt. Greece crouched on the ground, petting a cat.

"Really, another stray? Geez, Greece, you're going to be in trouble if you keep feeding these pests." Ottoman Empire stated.

"…So?" Greece glanced up. The cat, annoyed that the nation stopped petting him, placed its paws on the Greek's knees and mewled. Egypt picked the cat up and scratched it behind its nicked ears.

"Not you, too. Man, you two really need a hobby or something." The Ottoman sighed.

"He has a hobby," Greece titled his head to Egypt's garden. A rainbow of flowers and strange-shaped leafs sprouted out of the dark, well-tended earth. Clearly Egypt perfected the art of growing plants outside of their natural environment: France could see tropical palms growing along side squat flowers he'd seen only grown in highlands. With any luck, there was an Egyptian lightning lily somewhere.

"Bah, that don't count." Ottoman Empire slurred. Egypt set the cat down. His face was crestfallen at the older nation's rejection. Greece glanced at his friend.

"What are you doing here, anyway, Guard Member Ottoman Empire?" The Greek asked listlessly, flopping onto his back in the dirt. The cat went over and jumped onto his stomach.

Even from his hiding spot, France could see the Ottoman's lip twitch. Realization hit the Frenchman like a fist thrown during a bar fight.

"Eh, bored. I leave tomorrow and wanted to make sure you lot planned on working." He spun around, waving his hand around. "I'm out of here."

France stiffened and took a step back before acting like he'd just walked outside. Ottoman Empire bobbed his head when he pasted. France paused and looked at the Ottoman's back.

_You're doing this for them, aren't you?_ France pressed his lips into a line. _Suffering under British Empire for Egypt and Greece. _

"France, you need something?" Greece sat up. The cat fell to his lap.

"Hmm? Oh, _oui_."

"Better hope Ottoman Empire didn't hear you." The Grecian stood with the cat crawling to his shoulder.

"Just a slip." France chuckled. "Anyway, Egypt, I need some plants." The Egyptian nodded for him to continue. "I need some witches hazel." Egypt pointed to a bush with green leafs. "I also need something called an 'Egyptian lightning lily'?"

"You need that pretty blue flower?" Greece asked. The Egyptian held up a finger and walked to his garden. As he did, Greece inquired, "What…do you need it for?"

France lifted a finger a put it to his lips. "It's a secret." The Grecian raised an eyebrow. He could see something in France's eyes. Something he hadn't seen in years; so long it took a moment for Greece to recognize it.

"…" Egypt handed a few sprigs of witches hazel and an electric blue flower with bright yellow stripes to the blond.

"_Merc_—I mean, thank you." France smiled and turned, heading towards the stables.

"Hmm." Greece petted the cat.

"…?" Egypt titled his head.

"Hope…That's what's in his eyes."

******Hetalia!******

France pushed open the door to the stable. The smell of hey and livestock hit him in a warm gust. Horses and a few nursing bovine animals and their young glanced up at the Frenchman. A nesting mother goose hissed and ruffled up her feathers, trying to sound and look intimidating to the nation from beside the door.

France pulled off his jacket and set it down before placing the witches hazel and lily on it. He folded the fabric around the plants gently. He set the bundle on a sturdy, wooden table beside the door. The goose nipped at his ankles. He was too close to her eggs for her comfort. (*)

"I'm going. I'm going." France grumbled, moving on. The Frenchman wondered through the U-shaped stable, looking for Denmark, but the only to find animals staring at him. He half considered attempting to require the spit on his own, then he heard a voice.

France wandered to the ladder up the loft. Eyebrow raised, the Frenchman started his way up. Pushing himself to his feet at the top, France heard the voice again: Denmark's. It was difficult to understand the words being spoken, though. They were not in English…or Dutch, France noted.

Hay in square bales were piled up to the ceiling, and loose hay littered the loft floor. A small hall had been created by moving the square bales around. France made his way though the hay. The scent of mold from the older bales made his nose twitch. The farther in, the darker it became.

At the end of the corridor the hay bales opened up to an large open area near a window. There, France found Denmark—and Norway.

The Dane had his lips crushed against the Norwegian's. Norway's arms were wrapped around the Denmark's neck, fingers tangled in his hair, while Denmark's had his wound around Norway's waist. Norway's legs scissored about Denmark's waist. Their shirts rested in a on top of each other near the window.

Denmark pulled away and muttered something in Norwegian. Norway responded in Danish before returning his lips to their original place.

"_Hon-hon-hon_. I feel I'm interrupting something." France chortled breathily. The two jerked apart and looked at the blond smirking at them.

"How long you been standin' there?" Denmark asked, his speech slurred. He'd been drinking; France could see the intoxication in his eyes.

"Long enough."

Norway swallowed, pulling Denmark's hands off his hips and disentangled his legs, much to the Dane's disappointment. "You won't tell, right?" He wasn't nearly as drunk as Denmark.

"Probably not."

"C'mon, man! I can try to let Norge let you join in, if you want." Denmark winked. Norway glared before reaching out and twisting the other Nordic's nipple. Denmark winced. "I think that's a…yes?"

"It's a no." Norway snapped.

France smiled. Today was just getting better and better. "You two know I would never tell; I'm not that lowly. I came to ask Denmark for something, but I don't think he'll be much help." Denmark had crawled behind Norway and wrapped his arm around the shorter nation's neck, burying his nose in the Norwegian's hair.

"_Nej, {no,}_" Denmark giggled, "I'm staying put so I can play with Norway. Right, Norge?" Denmark curled Norway's curl around two of his fingers and tapped the dot beside it with his pinky.

"What do you need, France?" Norway slipped out of Denmark's grip and stood. The Dane pouted before standing, using the wall to stabilize himself.

France was now very grateful at least one of them was drunk. "This is going to sound strange—"

"You'd be surprise how much I doubt it." Denmark started poking the curl and dot that floated by Norway's head, smiling broadly as he did. "British Empire has Norge get all sortsa weird stuff." Norway nodded with a sigh.

"Alright. Calf spit. That's what I need."

"_That's it_!" Denmark shrugged. "_Bah_, I can get that!" He stumbled over and picked up his and Norway's shirts. He tossed Norway's his and started to pull his shirt over his head.

"Lezzs go." Denmark plowed past France.

Norway winced. "Idiot's going to fall off the loft." At that point Denmark let out a cry then France and Norway heard a _thud_.

France put a hand on the Norwegian's shoulder. "Don't worry. I won't tell British Empire about you and your _amant {lover}_."

Norway gave the Frenchman a grateful smile.

****Hetalia!****

Holy Rome head down the hall. He had the three coins in his own pocket, wrapped tightly in a cloth so they wouldn't jingle.

"Urk. Damn."

The Holy Roman raised an eyebrow and head towards the sound.

America stood in front of a reptilian creature covered in blue scales with a smooth duck-like bill opened to reveal sets of tiny, sharp, teeth. Sweat rolled from his brow. He wiped his sleeve across it.

"I see you haven't gotten the scale for Britain." Holy Rome wandered over.

"Shut up. It's stuck." America grumbled, grabbing a scale and tugging. The older nation chuckled. Since his childhood, America had been stronger than most nations. The irony seeing him struggling against the scale of a taxidermy animal was highly amusing for Holy Rome.

"Let me help." The Holy Roman gripped the scale and gave a tug. Nothing. He furrowed his brow and tried again with the same result. "Shit. Let's try together."

America nodded and grabbed the scale again.

"_Uno_…_due_…_tre_…Pull!" The boy strained against the scale. Sweat dripped down their faces. Then…_POP_! The scale released from the creature. The force caused the taxidermy animal to rock violently. The blue, duck-mouth alligator fell forward. Holy Roman Empire and America dove to the side. Without exchanging any words, the two jumped up and hurried away.

"Think anyone saw us, Holy Rome?"

"Nah."

From around the corner, a set of cold green eyes watched them.

**Eh, this chapter is…so-so. I liked France part, but…:\ Eh on the rest. Oh well. Maybe next time. Also, provided I don't double check, sorry if the Danish is wrong. I had to Cha-cha it…-.-'**

**Just a note, I pulled Philippines and Portugal for the other kitchen workers out of the air: no other reason than that Philippines was the first country to come to mind and Portugal also starts with a 'P'…Do they have good food in those places…?**

**(*)Geese do hiss, for the record (they fluff up too.). My Mom has some white European (?) and brown African (?) ones. My niece and my elder sister's betrothed are both **_**TERRIFIED **_**of them. My niece has called me before and made me guide her past the geese to the door…^3^ I'm not scared of them in the least! I'm so brave. ;P**


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer, see chapter 1**

**Chapter 11**

Britain smiled at the items in front of him. Everything he needed for the world travel spell, well almost everything. Britain had learned from past experiences that if the spell was preformed inside a building, one would ended up in a building in the parallel world. It's easier to explain why you appeared in someone's garden than in female Russia's bathtub to a half-naked girl Latvia.

But, was there a safe place outside? Somewhere safe, where no one would notice. Britain brought the question up to the nations who actually lived in that world.

"Uh." Italy tapped his chin.

A commotion came from the hallway. Holy Rome stood. "I'll check it out."

"I'll come, too" France offered.

"No. It's fine. I command more authority than you, and if worse came to worse," The Holy Roman patted the sword at his hip to emphasis his point. He put his hand on Italy's shoulder for a short moment and let it slide off. "Be back."

******Hetalia!******

Out in the hall, Holy Roman Empire stood straight-spined with his chest puffed out, a commanding presents.

"Who's out here?" Holy Rome walked down the hall to an ill-lit area. "Don't hide."

A hand came from dim, curling around Holy Rome's neck. The nails dug into his skin, making half-moon shapes. "Who's hiding, _Brother_?" The empire gasped, his fingers curled around the hand's wrist.

From the dark, the other Guard Members appeared, all steel faced with cold eyes.

"P-Prussia, let me go. What are you doing here?"

His brother's pale lips twisted into a smirk. "I could ask you the same thing, or I have a better question" Switzerland came up and pressed the edge of a dagger between Prussia's fingers, against Holy Rome's neck.

"Who is the man posing as our British Empire. The man you've been running errands for?" Switzerland growled. Holy Rome barely concealed his shock.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Cousin. Now, brother let me down." The empire demanded. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a movement.

Italy poked his head out, then disappeared.

Holy Rome hoped Italy wasn't planning on saving him.

******Hetalia!******

Italy burst into the room. "The Guard's coming!"

"What?" Britain looked up.

"The Guard, they know you're not British Empire. Holy Rome's distracting them now, but they're coming. I don't think we have time to make it outside." Italy shut the door and started fiddling with the locks.

"Shit." Britain hissed. "I guess we'll have to risk it. France, hand me that flower." After that, the Brit became barking orders and throwing things into the pot, his face growing more and more worried. What if the Guard came in before he could open the portal to return home? What if he was stuck here? What if the Guard killed him? What if British Empire destroyed his world like this one?

What will happen to the parallel nations of this world when the Guard bursts in?

That thought froze Britain for a moment. What would happen? He'd go home, pray British Empire hadn't destroyed his world, and if he did, Britain try to fix it. But…what about France? Holy Rome and Italy? America?

Someone banged at the door.

"Open up," Switzerland yelled.

"Angleterre, hurry! The Swiss might shoot down the door!" France shouted.

The Brit shook his head clear. "Right!" He took a deep breath and started chanting. The chant was old and familiar, almost comforting.

The air in the room grew heavy, like a hand pressing down on the room, squeezing the air molecules tighter and tighter. The liquid in the pot began to swirl and glow. The light drained from the room as the sun set so that the only illumination came from the glowing pot.

"France, I know you're in there! Open the door and we might not hurt you!" Spain yelled, a touch of pity—or maybe fear—for the Frenchman barely detectable, yet still there.

France gritted his teeth. "Sorry, _Espagne {Spain}_."

In unison the dull voices of the Guard rang out, "We don't speak French in his household."

America shuddered. "Are you almost done with that spell thing?"

Britain nodded curtly, the final lines of the spell rolling off his tongue, past his lips.

Outside, Sweden pushed the other Guards aside. He drew his long, board sword, raised it over his head, and sliced down, then across. The two pieces not attached to the hinges clattered to the ground.

A blinding light shot out the room. Covering his eyes, Holy Rome pushed past his brother into the light, stumbling into someone, who stumbled into someone else, who grabbed the first someone's arm as he tumbled back, who thumped into Britain.

Britain gasped about to fall into the bright portal when someone grabbed his shirt, attempting to pull Britain back onto the soles of his feel.

Attempt failed.

The Brit, the person who grabbed him, and the person who grabbed the second fell into portal.

His blue eyes barely adjusted, Holy Rome saw three of the four disappear: whisked away to Britain's world. Only one silhouette left, one silhouette Holy Rome knew the Guard would hurt, torture maybe, if they caught him.

Holy Rome made a move to lunge forward and tackle the last person. The Holy Roman Empire planned to go with said person to Britain's world. Prussia, on the other hand, planned to keep both his brother and that person there and beat them with in an inch of their immortal lives until he got some answerers.

The Prussian dove at his brother, aiming for his shoulders, just as Holy Rome dove at the remaining person. The head of the Guard missed the empire's shoulders, but as he neared the ground, he swiped out his hand. His fingers wrapped around blue fabric. He jerked his hand back.

Holy Rome's hand landed on the other person's chest, pushing him, when he was choked. His cloak pressed against his windpipe and pulled him backward with a cut-off gasp. His feet flew up to the height his head had been and vise versa. The heel of his boot kicked the person in the upper thigh.

The person half-kicked half-tumbled into the portal, leaving Holy Rome all alone.

******Hetalia!*****

Britain felt himself being crushed, as if someone dropped a barbell on his spine. The weight, the feeling of it, seemed oddly familiar, though. The Brit poured through his memory banks quickly, trying to recall where he'd felt this before…

Then it hit him.

"Francis, you frog! Get off of me!" With a sudden about of strengthen fueled purely by embarrassment and April Fool's flashbacks, Britain bolted straight up. Francis—no, _France_—tumbled onto the floor holding his head.

After realizing his mistake, Britain held out a hand to France. "Sorry about that."

"Why are you apologizing to him? I'm the one he sat on!" America cried form his position squished under the Frenchman.

"Sorry, Amerique." France said, using Britain's hand to help him to his feet. "Won't happen again."

"It better not." America grumbled and rubbed the his back where France had landed. He then proceed to look around. "Where are we?" At that moment, Britain remembered the portal, falling effortlessly through the space between worlds, the Guard, someone pushing him.

The Brit looked around. He knew this sandy-gold colored hallway, the painting of some ruler or another on the wall, the diamond pattern of the carpet, the stain in the corner behind a small table whose exact origins come from a story no-where near suitable for children…

"The French Embassy?" A smile suddenly crept up Britain's lips, and he darted down the hall. France and America exchanged looks before following suit. With any luck, British Empire hadn't found his way to the World Meeting, and if he did, maybe the other nations had him restrained.

And maybe Greece would sell off all his cats and start breeding show dogs like Germany.

The meeting room was trashed: tables broken and turned over, bits of wood from either shattered tables or chairs littered the floor, holes and missing sections on the walls.

Had it just been this, Britain would have felt fine; a meeting room usually ended up like this when the nations came together, and that was on a good day, but then his eyes fell on to the dark spots on the floor.

Blood.

One had been considerable bigger than the rest, like a head wound. Something about the dark spot made the Brit's stomach turn.

"Wow." America blinked. "Something bad happened here. British Empire, probably."

"No 'probably' about it." France put his hands on his hips and frowned. "British Empire was here, Angleterre."

Britain chewed his lip and prayed that no one had been hurt—and if someone was, he hoped it was Alfred! This was all his fault, dammit. Pushing the angry thoughts away, Britain pulled out his phone. In this modern age, the likelihood that any of the nations didn't have their phone was slim to none. He pressed down on a random number in his contacts.

"H-hello?" Seychelles picked up after the first ring. Her voice sounded wary, and Britain could swore he heard Monaco in the background whispering something feverously.

"Seychelles, my girl, are you alright? I'm in the meeting room and—"

"Go to hell, bastard." Monaco's voice stated, and the line went dead.

"My goodness, Monaco…" Britain sighed. He mulled over whom to call next. Yao? No, considering what just happened, he'd probably just scream 'aiyah!' at him. Alf—No. He wasn't even going to finished that thought. Ivan? He was just insane enough to listen, right?

"What are you doing now?" America asked.

He pursed his lips then grumbled, "Trying to piece together what actually happened." The Brit held the phone to his ear, chewing his lips.

One ring…

Two rings…

Three rings.

Britain's stomach began to turn. If something bad happened to Ivan, then—

"_Алло? {__hello?}"_

*****Hetalia!*****

Ivan blinked when his phone went off. He furrowed his brow for a moment. Who would be calling him right now? His boss? No, his boss knew better than to bug him at a World Meeting. Belarus? No, he had a certain ring tone for her. Who could it be? Oh! Maybe the craziness of British Empire's attack made the Baltics realized they should come back and live with Russia! The first step to all becoming one with Russia…

"Are you going to answer that-aru?" China asked, pulling Russia out of his reverie.

"Right!" Russia pressed talk and held the phone to his ear. "_Алло? {__hello?}_"

"Ivan, thank goodness!"

The voice on the other line froze the nations in the room. China took a step closer to Japan. From his spot on the couch, France winced, recalling all the pain he'd endured having British Empire attack him in his own capital. America gritted his teeth and swore.

"B-Britain!" Russia blinked.

"Yes! It's me, not listen clos—"

"No! Go away, you crazy parallel nation! Leave me alone!" Ivan cried, tossing the phone to China.

"Ivan, please, calm down!" Britain pleaded.

"Aieyh! I don't want it-aru!" China screeched, chucking the phone to Japan, who dodged it.

"Yao! Come now, let me explain! I' m not British Empire." The Brit tried to explain as the phone continued flying through the air. "Who else there? Someone with a head on their shoulder—Kiku? Ludwig? Hell, Francis! Please, calm down. I'm trying to—"

Alfred snatched the phone from the air and yelled, "Burn in Hell, you fucking limey! If I ever seen your face again, I'm kicking your ass from here to the moon for what you did to my brother, British Empire bastard! Hear me?"

Britain cried, imploring. "Something happened to Matthew?! Dear Lord, is he alright? Alfred, for once in your bloody life, listen to me! Francis, surely you're there! For once let's put our differences truly aside and—" The American pressed end on the phone.

The other nations soon became panicking, rushing around and talking frantically. All the nations, but Francis. The Frenchman pursed his lips. Something did not feel right. British Empire referenced to all of them by their birth names, and didn't know about Ludwig, but this one…

While everyone talked, Francis slipped out his phone.

****Hetalia!** **

Britain stared at his phone, flabbergasted. What happened to Matthew to piss Alfred off so much? His eyes darted to pool of dried blood. His heart raced. Could that be from—

He shook his head. No. He was not allowed to think that. Matthew was okay, no matter what.

"Angleterre, did you figure anything out?" France asked.

"I'm afraid so." Britain sighed. Before France could remark, the phone in Britain's hand buzzed: text message.

"_Arthur. They gang and I are at my house, if you'd like to come talk. Bring wine. We're going to need it. -Francis B."_

*****Hetalia!****

**Ugh! Short! SHORT SHORT! 0-o' Sorry, it's so short. But I'm not really sure what I want to happen here. So I'm ending this early. D= Sorry.**

**Also, this chapter is really crappy.**

**And has anyone listen to the new Hawk Nelson single, 'Words'? It is a great song; Go look it up!**

**On the plus side, I got to talk to the who won second on the Gen Con 2012 Costume Contest. She was so cool and her outfit as EPIC and took over a year to make. She gave me some great tips of cosplay. :)**


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer, See chapter 1**

The destruction was unbelievable. Buildings riddled with holes and crumbling. Deep caters in the streets and over turned cars. Glass from smashed shop windows glinted on the concrete.

A pang of pity stabbed Britain in the stomach for the Frenchman. Every nation knew how much pain rang though their bodies when their hearts, their capitals, were attacked like this. It took days, sometimes weeks to fully recover.

As the three nations wandered through the streets, slipping through alleys and staying in shadows to avoid unnecessary attention, they found not all of Paris was in rumbles. Only the area near the embassy.

Britain couldn't help but wonder where British Empire was hiding out. Hopefully somewhere far away from London or the United Kingdom. If Scotland or Wales found out about this, he'd never live it down.

"_England, you're such a failure!" "A pathetic excuse for a little brother!" "What would Mother think of this?" "I want my independence from the UK!"_

"Oh, Lord, please don't let Scotland or Wales find out." Britain's shoulders heaved in a sigh. France blinked and looked at the Brit, who continued with his prayer, "Or my boss. I think she's still mad about the last time…"

"What is he talking about?" America asked.

"Uh, _Je ne sais pas. {I do not know}," _France answered. "I am a little scared to ask."

Shrugging, America took the risk. "Britain, what are you talking about?"

The Brit jerked. "Oh, what? Sorry about that. I'm just worried my boss will be angry with me. She sometimes gets quiet annoyed with all the…stunts the nations of my world pull. This might be a tad more than she can handle, though." Britain laughed nervously.

"This world is really different from ours." America stated with a frown.

"_Oui._" France responded. Britain raised an over-sized eyebrow. Seeing this, France explained. "There are no 'bosses' in our world. Countries, governments, all of it, are controlled by British Empire."

Britain furrowed his brow. "That's against the rules, isn't it? All nations have to have a human boss; that's how it's been since the beginning."

"The rules also say you're not suppose to kill a normal person when they are not an enemy solider or threatening you." American said. "British Empire does that stuff, though."

Britain just shook his head and continued on. No boss? He couldn't imagine. Even before an established monarch, Britain had a boss. He might have been the leader of a Celtic tribe not a king, but he was still the personification's boss.

Besides, being against the rules, it was simply a bad idea for nations to complete govern themselves. The personifications were been to be the embodiment of a land and its people. A human from the land who had suffered the same plights as the rest of the citizens would be better suited to rule.

Also, from many past experiences, Britain had learned that long lived beings, such as himself, tend to fall into ruts, keeping everything the same or drawing out something, while short lived humans work harder for their goals with new ideas. Those ideas don't always work, but the knowledge gained from the failure pushed humans towards success (something nations can have a hard time doing).

Britain pushed the thoughts away. No point in dwelling on the misdoings of British Empire right now. Focus on the present, and on the oh-so near future.

******Hetalia!******

France titled his head back, trying to take in his counterpart's home. Such a pretty house. Indeed, something the personification of France would live in. Well-trimmed rose bushes lined the front of the house and path that led to the large front door. Two large, leafy, green trees towered on each side of the door, casting shadows. A _flour de lys_ was carved on one of the pillars that held up the roof of the overhang.

The Briton held up his hand and told the parallel nations to stay were they were. He was going first. Taking a steeling, yet somewhat shaky, breath, Britain marched to the door. He knocked loudly a few times, then announced he was coming in.

No mouse squeaked nor floor board creaked, as Britain entered. An unease feeling welled up in his stomach, just like when he first ended a battle he knew he couldn't possible win.

"Hello? Francis? Ivan? Yao? Anyone here?" Britain called out warily. "It's me, Arthur." Just as the Brit turned the corner, a table flew at him. He gasped and ducked down. The table nearly took of his head before clattering to the ground.

"You missed, stupid American-aru!"

"Well, let's see you try, dude! That table was, like, made of oak or something."

"Alrighty now, let's not fight each other, da? We have someone else's head to bust today, okay~?"

"Everyone, please calm down…"

Britain forgot about the table instantly at the sound of the familiar voices. Without much though, he hurried down the hall. He skidded to a stop, nearly plowing into the wall. Never in his life had Britain been more excited to see that crazy bunch of nations in his entire—

Alfred pointed a gun in his face.

Britain jumped and held his hands up to show he was defenseless. He glanced up from the barrel. Ivan tapped his hand with his pipe, humming to himself with a dark purple aura forming around him. Kiku narrowed his eyes, gripping his katana tighter while his older brother banged his wok and ladle together.

"Alfred, for God's sake, get that gun out of my face!" Britain snapped.

A dark grin appeared on the American's lips. "Don't think I'm gonna fall for that little 'I'm not an evil parallel nation' trick again!"

"I am not tricking you, Yank! Kiku, please, you're the most sane nation I've ever met; please talk some sense into him." The Brit looked beseechingly at his fellow island nation. Japan did not waver, at least in stance, yet Britain could see recognition to Britain's words flash in his eyes.

"Nothing doin', Englishman." Alfred growled.

The blond island nation opened his mouth to speak, but a voice with a thick French accent spoke first.

"_Fail, _Angleterre_." _Francis snorted, coming down the hall with his hands in his jacket pockets. "You forgot the wine!"

"Well, I am sorry." Britain rolled his eyes. "I couldn't find one to suit everyone's tastes."

Francis took the gun from Alfred and set it down. He turned to the younger nation and said in a very serous tone. "I do not want anymore shooting in my home." The American opened his mouth, but a French glare made him shut it. "So, Angleterre, I believe you have, oh, what is the expression? Oh, yes, some explaining to do?"

"Francis-san," Japan lowed his weapon, but just slightly.

"Don't worry, Japan. This is ours." Francis smiled. "I can tell because he doesn't have that air of power and danger around him, like the other."

"Why-you bloody frog!" Britain glowered. "If I didn't think I needed your help, I would bop you one right now on that smelly head of yours!"

"Oh! You are right! This one is not blood thirsty." Ivan stated. "Welcome back!" He darted forward and kissed the shorter nation. The nation shuddered slightly, trying his best to hide his revulsion at the Russian greeting.

"How are you all so sure this is our Britain-aru!" Yao demanded. "We thought the other one was too, and he nearly killed us!" The Chinese man swung his arm out. "I want proof-aru!"

Britain pursed his lips then snapped, "For the love of—Yao! I've known you for years! You and I fought together in the World Wars. What proof could you need? Something only I could know?"

"Damn straight! I'm with Yao. Give us proof!" Alfred exclaimed.

"You wet your bed as a child." Britain's lips curled into a smirk.

"I-I did not!" Alfred snapped. "He's a fake: gimme the gun!" The American reached for it, only to have France hit him in the back of the head.

"I know for a fact you did," Francis said matter-of-factly. Alfred's face burned a deep red. Ivan cataloged this information away for farther use later. The Frenchman continued. "And besides, didn't you notice that Angleterre here called us by our human names. The other only knew our real names. That's how I figured it out."

"For once, I'm surprised you're brain wasn't focused on wine or women, Francis." Britain stated. He held back the comment that Francis' mind was now probably on both topics.

Alfred scrunched up his nose. As much as he current hated Britain, he knew this person was his, sadly. Then urge to shot his brains out seemed to increase with this knowledge. To fight it back, Alfred reaching into his pocket, produced a burger, and started eating. Food always calmed him.

"Alright, if that is true, think do you think you could tell us what happen, Arthur-san?" Japan asked, finally returning his sword to the case at his hip.

"Yeah! What happened, Opium-aru?" Yao crossed his arms and eyed the Brit.

Britain gave a quick bare-bone-basics summary of his adventure, omitting the reason for his time travel and Holy Rome. The others stared at him for a moment. Britain took a breath then finished, "I was able to get the necessary items for returning here, thus here I am."

"Wow, almost sounds like some sort of romance…" France said. (*)

"Almost Arthurian, yes." Britain said quickly. "There is one more thing, though, you must know." The group seemed to stiffen, as if they knew the 'one more thing' had to be bad news.

"What is it? I swear, if you brought a ghost or something, I'm kicking your—" Alfred started.

"Why would he bring back a ghost-aru? Stupid Westerners…" Yao grumbled.

"You see, I didn't get back on my own. I had help, and through a little accident, that help fell through the portal here into this world with me."

"You have the parallel nations from that British Empire's world here, too?" Ivan titled his head then he grinned. "Okay. More comrades to help, _da_? And after the battle, all will become on with Russia!"

"Ain't happen." Alfred grumbled, then louder, he asked, "Who'd you bring with you?"

"The alternate versions of the French Kingdom and the Thirteen Colonies of British America." Britain barely hid his amusement at the look of shock on Francis' and Alfred's faces, especially Alfred's.

"British America? What the fuck?" The American shuddered. "Poor alternate me, stuck with an awful name."

"Did not British Empire-san say he was surprised you were not a colony, America-kun," Japan commented.

Alfred rubbed his chin in thought. "Um, think so. It was either before or after the floating chair." He was just so mad at the moment, he couldn't really remember exactly what British Empire bastard said, but the American did remember saying he was not a colony anymore…or something like that.

Britain sighed. Somehow, British Empire was going to make the UK get into a war, Britain just knew it. "Look, you lot, France and America, the ones from British Empire's world, are outside. I should go get them. They know more about that world than I."

Francis nodded. "_Oui_. I must see if this me is as handsome as the me, well, me, so I'm coming with you, Angletere. Don't let this group go to Hell in an hand basket, Japan."

the Frenchman threw back his hair and smiled brightly. Clearly, he doubted that anyone, even himself, could be as handsome as he was. He was nation of love (lust), of course no person could be more attractive than he!

But even with that knowledge, Britain knew Francis's alternate motive: Make sure Britain was not lying to them, make sure Britain wasn't really the British Empire.

Images of the embassy, of the streets around it, the destruction and mayhem, came to his mind's eye.

Britain could not blame Francis' distrust in the least.

The two blonds walked through the halls to the door in silence. Francis put his hand on Britain's shoulder and stared down hard at him. When two people have been together as long as they have, sometimes, words are not necessary for ensure the point is cross. _If you betray me, I _will_ kill you. _

Britain nodded. _I'd expect nothing less. _He pushed open the door. "France, America. Where are you two?"

"We're here." France stepped from behind one of the large trees. "Just admiring the scenery."

"It's is beautiful, no?" Francis stepped out, smiling broadly. The parallel France jumped slightly as Britain's kept talking, "Almost as beautiful as myself, but not as _belle_ {_beautiful}_." Francis walked over and looked his counterpart up and down then nodded. "Although, you are almost has handsome as me, but that ugly clothing ruins you."

"I don't wear these awful colors and bland design because I want to." France said. It almost sounded like a reflex to Britain, like something he's said a million times before.

"If you're our ally, I'll lend you something much more fashionable that some tacky British uniform," Francis winked.

"Tacky?" Britain snapped. "Are you insulting my style?"

"I do ever day of my life, _mon lapin {my rabbit_}."

"I am not a rabbit!"

"You are right. Rabbits are cute. You're a hare, the ugly version of a rabbit."

"I'm not an animal, frog!"

"Oh-ho? Resorting to name calling already? My, my! What happen to the big, smart strong, _Royaume Uni? {United Kingdom?}" _Francis threw his head back, laughing at Britain. "Just kidding, Arthur. Although, you look cute when your face is so red, just like that!" Francis slammed his hand between Britain's shoulder blades. The island nation stumbled forward slightly before he sent a sharp glare at Francis, who smiled back flirtatiously.

"Are you sure you are allies, Angleterre?" France asked, chuckling.

"The best!" Francis grin widen, and he threw his arm around Britain's shoulder.

"Oh, shush it, wanker." Britain ducked down and slipped out of the older nation's grip. "Allies or not, I am still not particular fond of _you_, Francis."

"Whatever you say!" The Frenchman said in a singsong voice. The parallel world France covered his smile. It felt like an old, half-forgotten memory was playing out in front of him. A memory France could not remember the exact setting or place, or even what words were actually spoken, but the feeling was there. That not-quiet-hate-almost-a-friendship feeling France could still remember having with British Empire when they were younger, always fighting about something just for the sake of seeing who would win so he could gloat over the other until the next time a fight arose.

"Oh, right! Angleterre, where is this little 'Alternate Amerique'?" Francis asked, looking around. Britain raised an eyebrow and turned to France. The parallel nation shrugged. He lost track of him a few moments before Britain and Francis came out.

"I'm right—shit!" Out from the treetop, a head of dirty blond hair fell. He tried to throw his arms out, but did not have enough time. America's jaw landed against the pavement with a sharp _click _of his teeth hitting each other. He didn't move for a moment, then he moved his hand to rub his chin.

"Ouch, that hurt. I did not intend to fall." America grumbled.

"That's gravity for you," France commented, "always brings you down." The Frenchman poked the American in the cheek with his foot. "You alright?"

America pushed himself up, dusting off his pants. "Yeah, yeah. I just fell trying to climb down." Remembering Francis was there, he turned and held out his hand, smiling. "Nice to meet you, Francis, by the way."

Francis' mouth fell open and his eyes bugged out. This child…was so polite, even if it was in a very English way. When was the last time Alfred was polite? Was it when his last president came to office? No, France remembered Alfred saying oh-so-brightly, 'What up, new boss dude?' Not the his new boss before that or that or that…Maybe, the 1920's, to that pretty girl Amelia Earhart? No, he was informal then too…There was a time after that. Maybe that one man, who fought for civil rights? Yes, then. 1940...or

1950 something?

France shook off his shock and shook the American's hand. "_Bonjour, petite Amerique." _

"I'm not little." America's voice was flat, hard, and toneless, yet his eyes burned with a mixture of emotions: bitterness, anger, sorrow, grief.

_Such eyes, what has happened to him?_ Francis frowned inwardly. This America was so different than Alfred, and in more than just appearance and formalness. This America looked torn, as if one person had his left arm and another his right, and those two people were pulling him, left, right, left, right…

Francis let go of the younger nation's hand and straighten up. "So, anyone wish to explain why this one is so much shorter than ours?" He raised his hand above him then lower it to America's height level.

"I'm not as economically independent?" America ventured.

"_Non_." France said, dropping his hand on top of the other parallel nation's head. "He means no independence at all." America scowled at the other nation and swore loudly.

"Hmm?" Francis turned to Britain.

"I told you, in their world, America never revolted. He never had that chance to completely grow up," Britain then added, "in the 1600 or 1700's."

The Frenchman nodded, watching the little American defend himself. A smile grew on his lips and soon laugh bubbled out. The other nations turned and eyed Francis. Britain knew it: Francis couldn't handle the attack on his heart coupled with this. He went crazy.

"Oh, it brings back such memories to see America attempt to argue with me, even if it is not me. Back before Angleterre made him so un-cute." France rubbed his chin fondly.

"What does that mean? I didn't do a thing to that prat!" Britain snapped.

"It's still your fault he grew up un-cute, Angleterre. Now if I had raised him he'd be cute, like Canada." France crossed his arms and nodded. "And if not cuter, at least more docile, like Canada. I mean, has Mathieu ever gotten into a war he started?"

"Sod off, frog." Britain grumbled. "Best we get back now. Kiku can only keep those lunatics inline for so long." He spun around on his heels and headed for the door. Francis giggled.

"I love picking on him."

*****Hetalia!*****

When Francis pushed open the door, he hoped to find his home in one piece, all the nations they left sitting quietly, or something akin to that. Of course, he knew that wouldn't happen unless there was large quantities of liquor or Lars' (**) illegal dabblings around, and that was if Britain and his low tolerance didn't come.

Ivan had his boot pressed against Alfred's chest, as Alfred attempted to choke the Russian with his scarf. Yao clenched his panda to his chest, muttering about stupid Westerns in into the bear's fur. Kiku attempted to calm the two younger nations, and was failing horridly.

The vein in Francis' forehead pulsed. He took a breath then shouted, "Stop fighting in my house, both of you!" The two scrabbled to their feet the threw their arms over the other's shoulder.

"What are you talkin' 'bout, Francey?" Alfred grinned ear to ear.

"_Da_! We were just playing a little game~" Ivan grinned too, and gripped the American's arm. The American gripped back, digging his nails into Ivan's arm though his jacket. Francis sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Stupid, the both of them.

"I apologize, Francis-san." Japan bowed his head slightly. "Ivan-san and Alfred-kun got a little more rowdy that I could handle."

"It is okay." Francis said. "Anyway, Angleterre and I got them." He stepped aside and allowed Britain, France, and America to come in.

***HETALIA!***

**Announcement~~ This story has officially gone over one-hundred pages~ This has to be one of my longest…=D And I like to think it's coming out well. Well, next chapter, we'll see what happens when they mean, shall we?**

(*) **When I say Romance here, I mean the original translations, a long, medieval-like adventure, not the type you're probably all thinking of. (interestingly, we get that word from French…)**

**(**) Netherlands. I like this name for him. X3 **

**Just a note, personally, I've always thought that the nations probably have a set of rules they have to follow, and those are two I think would be there: "A nation can not rule over his/her own land with out a human boss at his/her side" and "A nation can not kill a human being unless the human is threatening the nation, his/her citizens, or something of great importance, the human is a solider and the nation is at war, or the nation was ordered to by his/her boss.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer, see chapter 1**

Alfred blinked twice before pulling off Texas and whipping the glasses off on his shirt. He placed them on his face and stared. There really was another him, albeit a tinier one. Walking forward, Alfred held out a hand. "S'up, shorter-me dude?"

America pursed his lips in confusion as he took his counterpart's hand. "Um, nice to meet you?"

"Wow, man, you have the fucking limey's accent. That must suck ass, right?" Alfred sent a cold smirk to Britain.

"Sod off, Yank" was the response he earned."Whateves, Eyebrows." Alfred snorted. "Whateves." Britain bit down on his tongue to stop from swearing at the American. _Be the adult, be the adult, be the adult_…

Alfred titled his head once before turning his attention to the parallel France. His greeting was much the same as when Alfred greeted his counterpart, although the he switched the 'shorter-me dude,' with 'sad-looking France.'

Francis sent the American a glare and slapped the back of his head, nearly taking Texas off his face. He rolled his eyes and muttered a 'I'm sorry, dude' to the dully clad Frenchman.

Ivan walked over and pushed Alfred aside. "Greets, comrades. I'm am Russia, but you call me Ivan, _da_?" France noticed that this 'Ivan' wasn't giving them a choice in calling him by his human name.

"_Bonjour_." France said. America simply nodded in agreement.

Yao squirmed his way from between the towering Russian and American.. He eyed the two parallel world nations. "Are you sure we can trust them, Francis, aru?" France and America stiffened, slightly insulted. They risked their lives to help, of course he could trust them!

"Methinks someone is still mad about the flying table hitting poor Leon." Alfred said. Britain jerked. Something happened to Leon? A pang hit the Brit's stomach for his former Asia colony's wellbeing. What happened at that meeting?

"Yao-san, please calm yourself. A tempters flaring will solve nothing." Kiku stated. "Besides, Leon and Emil are both going to be alright."

Britain winced. "Shit. British Empire attacked both Hong Kong and Iceland? Great, I have most of Asia and the Nordics mad at me?"

"Dude, you sorta have all of the world pissed at you." Alfred stated. "I mean, like, all of it."

"_Da_! A few more seconds of that British Empire guy, and Eduard would have come running back to me." Ivan pouted slightly. He missed his little Estonian. He was a lot of fun to play hide-and-seek with; Edward always found the best hiding places. Sometimes, it took hours from Ivan to find him!

"I always feel bad for the USSR countries," Francis whispered, "living with Ivan for all that time." Ivan hummed loudly to himself before cheerfully asking Yao if he wanted to hear a story of when a certain Latvian fell from the third story window.

"The USS—what?" America asked back. Yao had said no, but Ivan had started recounting it already.

"The USSR, The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Really, it was Russia putting a lot of small countries around him under communism rule." Francis chuckled once then frown, "most of the countries that lived in his house are a tad unstable around Ivan. I don't know what happened there, but I know it was bad."

"It couldn't be that bad." America replied. His eyes were set forward. "I've probably seen worse."

Francis ran a hand through his hair. _I'm starting to believe that, _mon petite _Amerique_.

*****Hetalia!******

Britain rubbed his temples. This was not good. No good at all. British Empire was going to get the United Kingdom into a war in no time flat, at this rate. Horrible, simple horrible. His boss, she was going to a heart attack once she hears this! An unprovoked attack not only on French soil, but actually injuring Alfred, Matthew, Emil, and Leon. He could not handle a war, not with Canada and the United States (if he got into war with one, the other twin would back the other up), China, or Iceland and the Nordics (Norway would ally with his brother, no matter what, and it wouldn't take long for the rest of them to join up—He'd bet his right hand Scotland would even side with them!)

And the worse part, he felt it was all some what his fault—not totally his (mostly that Yank Alfred's), but a pang still stabbed his stomach.

"We should probably inform the other nations what we know, now." Japan said from his seat at the table. "Maybe we can gain clue to where British Empire went after he left the embassy."

"Yeah! Good idea, Japan." Alfred laughed. "You should get right on it." The Japanese man blink before pulling out his cell phone.

"What do we want it to say?"

"Dude, I was joking."

Francis took a sip of his wine. "Kiku, tell them that the Britain at the World Conference was a fake from a parallel word and we are trying to figure out a plan with our Britain. I will text Antonio and Gilbert, lighten your load."

"Oh, thank you." Kiku bobbed his head. "Francis-san."

Yao sighed and pulled his phone from his pocket. "I will tell our siblings, Kiku."

"Oh, I will tell my sisters, da? Mongolia as well as the Baltics."

"No way! I'm telling Toris." Alfred stuck out his tongue.

"But he's my ex, Alferd. I get to tell him." Ivan whined.

"Nope, me. He likes be better!"

"Nuh-huh!"

"Uh-huh!"

"Nuh-huh!

As the two argued, Francis texted Antonio and Gilbert as well as Toris and the other Balitcs, Switzerland, Feliciano, and Germany. On the end, he added '_P.S.: Big Brother says to pass this on, please~"._

He took another sip. "I wonder if Antonio and Gilbert are drinking with out me."

******Hetalia!*****

Gilbert sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was really hating this. Every time he even thought he saw a shock of messy blond hair, he jumped. So unawesome. Gilbert decided if he ever saw Britain again, he was going to punch him in the chest.

He pulled out his phone, reading a text Birdie sent him. Matthew headed straight home after the meeting that British Empire crashed, as did most nations, half to prepare for war and half out of fear.

_Birdie: I have a boding feeling. Something bad's gonna happen soon._

_The Awesome Me: Something bad ALREADY happen._

_Birdie: Something worse._

Half finished typing 'like wat?', Gilbert blinked when a new message from Francis appeared on the screen and his message was saved in drafts. He swore aloud.

_Francey Pants: The British Empire the meeting was faux. I have the our Britain here. We r trying to fix this mess. Stay safe, mon amie. P.S.: Big Brother says to pass this on. Love Francis_.

Gilbert pursed his lips then looked around. Maybe he should head over to Francis's house.

"Gilbert!"

The Prussian looked up to see his noble-ass cousin and that crazy-ass Hungarian. He bobbed his head as they walked over to his table. And here Gilbert thought it would be a good idea to grab a table in the open air. Those two better have something important to say.

"_Ja_?"

"Did you get Francis's text? Do you know what's going on?" Elizabeta asked.

"Of course! The Awesome Me knows all about the fakey Eyebrows and our Eyebrows being home!" Gilbert snorted. What did that girl take him for? A simpleton?…Best he didn't ask that. He pushed himself up, dropping a few euros on the table. "I'm heading over there right now, actually. They are definitely going to need the Awesome Prussia there."

Roderich nodded. "We'll come with you."

"Do you have to?" Gilbert whined. "You're prissy ass won't be of any help at all, noble." The Austrian's eyebrows twitched. Gilbert jumped over the hedges that separated the café he was at and the street. The other two nations skirted around and met him on the other side.

They were still going to follow? What a drag. Well, at least Elizabeta could be dangerous with that frying pan of hers. Maybe Roddy could be used as purple meat-shield?

The three countries headed around the counter when the sound of shouting came to their ears. They each stiffen. Their hands moved towards to the weapons hidden on their person.

The next thing Elizabeta knew a skinny man tackled her. Out of reflex she grabbed him by the back of his collar and tossed him over her shoulder before whacking him with her frying pan.

Feliciano pushed himself up, whimpering. "Ve! Why did you do that, Ms. Hungary? I won't hurt you!"

"Because you tackled her," Ludwig came up. He nodded to his relations and the female before grabbing Feli by his shoulders and standing him up. "I have warned you in times of crisis, people do not like to be glomped."

The Italian pouted. "I'm sorry. I forgot."

"No, I'm _so_ sorry, Ita," Elizabeta covered her mouth with one hand then patted Feli's clothing, trying to remove some of the dust and flecks of black from the frying pan. She loved Italy dearly; he was like the little brother/sister she always wanted.

Feliciano hugged the woman again. "It's okay, Ms. Elizabeta! I understand!"

"Thank you," She grinned. "So, Ludwig, what is are you still doing here? I would have thought you would head home by now." Ludwig sent a sharp gaze towards his older brother. Said brother whistled nonchalantly, rubbing the back of his head and avoiding the icy stare.

"I can't leave without him." Ludwig grumbled.

Feliciano released Elizabeta and bounced on his toes. "And I don't know were Romano went, and he has our tickets home, so I stayed with Ludwig because he's all big and strong and smells like wrust so I can always find him, and he will protect me if that mean Mr. British Empire comes back!" Ludwig sighed, pinching his nose. Why did he hang around Feli again?

"Not as strong as the Awesome Prussia, though!" The Prussian declared, striking a prose. Roderich rolled his eyes.

"You heard about Britain and British Empire, _ja_?" Roderich asked. Ludwig nodded.

Gilbert cut off whatever his cousin started to say by shouting, "The Awesome Me and, those two too, are heading to Francey's place to see how we—I—can help with kicking this British Empire guy's ass."

Feli threw his arms around Gilbert's waist and wailed. "Please don't! That man is scary and dangerous! I don't like him! Please don't go and get hurt, Gil! I love you and Mr. Roderich and Ms. Elizabeta and Ludwig too much to have that mean man hurt you all!" Both feeling touch, Elizabeta helped Roderich pry the crying Italian from Gilbert. Ludwig grabbed Feliciano's legs and tugged. The force tore him off the Prussian. He flew into the trees in a nearby park.

An embarrassed feeling twisted in the German's stomach. He grumbled a half-hearted 'oops' before heading towards the tree line. The older nations glanced at each other before tagging along behind the blond. Francis could wait until they disentangled Feli from the tree branches.

Feliciano hung from an evergreen branch, a vine of ivy wrapped around his ankles. All the blood was running to his head and the world was starting to spin a little bit. As the flying lilac bunny did loop-dee-loops around a bed of purplish-red calla lilies, Roderich wrapped his fingers around Feliciano's arms. He pulled the Italian downwards.

He tumbled and dropped on top of the Austrian. Elizabeta giggled, helping the noble to his feet, while Gilbert steadied the Italian. Ludwig shook his head. Italian countries confused him.

Shaking his head, Feliciano took a few steps forward and stumbled into the bushes.

"Hmm? Hey, everyone. I found something." Feliciano said. He moved some the bushes aside and titled his head. "Ve?" He reached down and picked up a stick.

"What is it?" Ludwig looked over Feli's shoulder.

"A box." The Italian poked it. "Hello? Is there anything inside of you, Mr. Box?" The German raised his hand to whap the Italian for his stupidity when he heard something.

"Uh, nope! This is the um…Box of Tomatoes Fairy! Do _not_ open the box! Ve! Or I'll uh…uh…curse you to years of tomatoes that taste like scones! _Scones_!" A voice laced with an Italian accent and a shudder threatened.

"The Box of Tomatoes Fairy is real?" Feliciano gasped, jumping behind Ludwig. "I'm so sorry!" Gilbert raised an eyebrow as he, Elizabeta, and Roderich moved closer, sweat dropping slightly.

Ludwig, his face twisted, slapped his hand on the top of the box. "Box of Tomatoes Fairy, You're Italian, aren't you?"

"_Si_—I mean no! I am not Italian! I'm uh, uh, uh—!" At this point the Germany pried off the top of the box. A head of light auburn hair with a bandana and a bobbing curl popped out. "Ok, I'm not the Tomato Box Fairy! I'm sorry! Please don't hurt me! I'm a very sorry Italy! I didn't mean to do it!"

There was a moment filled solely by the blathering of the Feliciano look-alike before a the Germanics collectively breathed, "_Mien Gott_."

Feliciano stepped around Ludwig, his head titled before he blurted out, "Hey! You look just like me!" The teenager in the box turned his head towards Feli, quieting down.

"Ve! You like me but as an adulta person!" He gasped.

Feliciano grinned broadly and grabbed his look-alike's hand. "_Ciao_! I'm Feliciano Vargas—repetitive of the Northern Half of Italia! You can call me Feli if you want! Ve!"

The teen pursed his lips in thought then gasped. "You're Mr. Britain's Italy!"

"Mr. Britain? What you talking about, kid?" Gilbert asked, pushing Ludwig aside. The look-alike turn and _eep_edwhen he saw Gilbert, Elizabeth, and Roderich. He pulled his apron to his face and began crying.

"Please don't hurt me, Mr. Prussia! I didn't do it! Well, I did, but I'll happily lie and say I didn't! I don't wanna get in trouble!" He wailed, earning a long stare from the other nations. Gilbert blinked first and stepped forward, holding his hands up to show he was unarmed.

"Hey, kid, calm down. I ain't gonna hurt you. I'm way, _way_ too Awesome to hurt a puny, little kid—without reason anyway." The Prussian said. "I am, after all, the Awesome Gilbert."

"Hmm?" The teen whimpered, looking up. His lip shook.

"Yeah. I dunno what you're talking about. What reason I do I have to hurt you, _bengel {kid}?" _Gilbert said, slipping his hands into his pockets lazily. "S'not like you tried to attack me or something, right?"

"Oh…you're not…Prussia." He said, bobbing his head.

Gilbert jerked and snapped instinctively, "_Ja, ich bin! {Yes, I am!} _I am the one and only Awesome Prussia!" Elizabeta darted over and whacked Gilbert in the back of the head with her frying pan. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Just blurting it out like that!

The teen paused then started laughing. "Mr. Britain never said you guys were this funny!"

"Excuse me," Ludwig's voice was sharp, instantly cutting off the boy's laughter, "who are you, and why are you in a box?"

"And why do you look like me?" Feliciano pointed to himself.

"Oh, that's simple! Ve. I look like you because I am you." He grinned broadly. "My name is Italia Veneziano, the northern half of the country of Italy."

*****Hetalia!*****

Feliciano leaned forward and wrapped Italy, who was still in the box, in a tight hug. "No way! Super cool!"

"Ve!" The other Italian chirped, hugging his counter part.

Roderich started, "What the…"

"Fuck." Gilbert finished.

"Why are there two Italies?" Elizabeta asked.

As Feliciano helped Italy out of the box, he asked. "Yeah, yeah! Why are there two me—two yous?" His brow furrowed in thought.

"Well, I came from my world, which is parallel to this one, with Mr. Britain—who was stuck in mine. I didn't mean to come. The Guard burst and I was pushed into that swirly portal thingy. I didn't know where I was so I hide in this box here." Italy explained, dusting off his dress. "And then you found me, and I'm glad you did. This world is so strange. I'm not even sure what country I'm in."

"We're in Big Brother France's home, in Paris." Feli chirped. "I can always tell because it smells nice and there is this really big tower over in that direction somewhere." He waved his hand in the general way of the Eiffel Tower.

"That and everyone speaks French." Gilbert snorted. "Prettier than English, not as Awesome as German."

"French? I haven't heard anyone other than big brother speak French in a looooong time!" He smiled. "And even he can't talk it for very long!"

"Why not?" Roderich asked. "If the big brother your talking about is France, shouldn't he be speaking French?"

"Well, scary Mr. British Empire says we are not allowed to speak anything but English—which is stupid, and silly, and stupid, and there are some more words for it too, but they're in Italian, but they're not very nice." Italy kicked at the ground, pouting slightly, while he named off the words in his head.

Elizabeta walked over to Italy and bent down. She smiled and put her hand on his head. He was so cute, just like Feliciano was when he was that young—down to the dress eve—

"You're still wearing the maid's dress." Elizabeta stated.

He sighed. "It's not because I want to! Mr. Austria just let me start wearing pants when Mr. British Empire took over."

"No shit! Eyebrows took Austria's vital regions!" Gilbert roared in laughter. "Poor noble priss!" As Roderich made a remark back, Elizabeta smiled then hugged Italy. Felicaino, feeling left out, turned to Ludwig, pouting.

"_Nien_!" Ludwig snapped. "I'm not going to hug you." Feli whimpered when Gilbert left his argument with Roderich and threw his arm over Feliciano's shoulder.

"It's okay, Italia. Unlike West, I'm Awesome and will gladly hug you." Gilbert smirked. His brother snorted, turning to the younger Italian. Italy looked around the still cooing Elizabeta. His heart skipped a beat.

This person, Ludwig everyone called him, looked like Holy Rome, but his eyes were lighter, and he was older, but the resemblance still sent Italy's heart fluttering. A feeling of guilty churned his stomach for the reaction.

Ludwig blinked when he felt Italy's eyes on his face. He turned and met the teen's gaze.

"_Ja_?" Ludwig said.

Italy blushed. "_Scusate! Scusate! {Sorry! Sorry!} _It's just…I noticed…" He fumbled, tripping over his words.

"_Ja_?" Ludwig repeated, already feeling a migraine. Two Italies, twice the headaches.

Suddenly feeling awkward with all the eyes on him, he blurted out without thinking, "You look so much like Holy Roman Empire!" Ludwig raised his eyebrows, surprised, while the other nations froze. Feliciano twitched a little, rubbing his arms. Gilbert averted his gaze to a new by tree. A bird watched the scene from the branches. Where was Gilbird again? The Prussian reached up and touched the bird on his head. Oh, right. Elizabeta and Roderich exchanged long, heavy glances.

They tried not to think about…that.

"Oh…I'm sorry. Mr. Britain told us that this world's Holy Rome…died." Italy whispered the last word. Feliciano flinched. Ludwig frowned, slightly confused. Then he remembered about his elder brother who died just before his birth.

"The way you said that," Roderich took a step, "sounded like your world's didn't die."

"He didn't." Italy said. "Holy Rome's the one who pushed me when Prussia and Spain burst into the room." He put his finger to his lip. "I hope he's okay. Holy Rome is a member of the Guard too, but I think they'll still be mad. Ve. I really hope Ottoman Empire doesn't try to torture him again."

The other countries' mouths fell open as Italy blabbered on and on, save Ludwig. He strolled over and put his hand over the teen's mouth. So annoying.

"Shush. Why must I always be the sound reason around you people?" Ludwig sighed. "_Bruder_, call Francis. If our Britain is with him, then he knows something."

"…oh, _j-ja_, West." Gilbert nodded and took out his phone, dialing Francis's number.

_La ring…_

_La ring…_

_La ring… _

"_Bonjour_?"

"Boner-drawer to you too, Francey-Pants." Gilbert cackled at his joke.

"This is not really the time, Gilbert." France said.

"Whatever. Look, the Awesome I, West, Feli, Elizabeta, and the prissy noble are here in a park-woods-thingy, and we got a mini-Italy in a dress gibber-gabbering on about a parallel world and how his Holy Rome is alive," Feliciano winced again, "and a lot other shit. You know anything?"

A moment of silence, then Gilbert heard some talking. He couldn't make out the words, sadly. A few swears and gasps and one or two whats, then some hasty talking.

"Hey, Francey? _Gott_! If you do answer me in threes seconds all the drinks are on you for the next three weeks!" Gilbert smirked. Free drinks! Next time he, Francis, and Antonio went out, he planned to drink his weight in beer. He loved doing that—it really freaked people out! He was German, and a nation to boot, so of course he could drink that much alcohol and be perfectly fine.

"_eins ... zwei ... dr—{one…two…thr—}"_

"Gilbert, _mon amie_, all of you—mini-Italia too—come to my house, now." Francis's voice come over the phone.

"_Scheiße {shit}_" Gilbert sighed. "Okay. Okay. We're coming, Francis. No free…Hey Francis, you wanna treat Antonio and me next time we go out?"

"No, Gilbert. It's still your turn." Francis quipped.

"Not awesome," Gilbert pouted.

"I'll treat you myself, if you want~"

"Nah, maybe next time. Last time didn't end well."

"And whose fault is that? Not _nation de l'amour_.

"No, completely _Nation von der Liebe {nation of love's}_. I was not drunk enough when you came on to me, man."

Ludwig winced. He rather not hear about this. He silently began to pray for a random pail to fall from the sky and hit his brother in the head.

"'Came on' is so coarse a term—like something America would do.'"

Gilbert heard a 'hey!' in the background before he spoke. "Francey, it's called 'came on' when you stick your hand down someone's pants and squeeze another person's ass at the same time."

"You enjoyed it, _non_?"

"Geez, don't think you're that special. Just about anyone squeeze _mien _five meters like that, I'd enjoy it." Gilbert rolled his eyes. "And I was drunk, so I thought you were a chick—then I saw that beard and remembered you're just a prevy, old man."

"I am not old!"

"Are, too! That's why you want everyone to call you 'big brother,' isn't it? 'Cause you're the oldest?"

"_Non_! _Oui_! Gilbert, shut up!"

"Whatever you say, _Opa {Grandpa}_. See you soon." Gilbert ended the call with a hum. He spun around to the other nations. "Okay, Francis says to head to his house…what are you all staring at?"

**Yup, I was going to have Germany call France but I changed it all for the 'boner-drawer' comment. =P I regret nothing (yet). Well, we know what happened to Italy, so let's see what happens now? Also, if the German's wrong, I ChaCha-ed a lot of it, so yeah. Sorry if it is a fail…0-o'**

**In other news, everyone excited for the season five Hetalia release in Japan! I know I am! **


	14. Chapter 14

**Declaimer: See Chapter 1**

Francis slumped over, pouting. "I am not old. I am not old…stupid German!"

"Sure, you're not old, Francis." Alfred patted his back. "You're ancient." He laughed, earning a sharp glare from the Frenchman. "Ah, don't give me that look—Eyebrow's old as dirt too, you know."

"Why you…" Britain took a breath.

"Well, what does age matter to immortals?" Ivan chirped. "So, more comrades are coming, _da_? Austria, Ms. Hungary, two North Italies, and those damned German brothers." A smile crept onto the Russian's face. "Those be damned German brothers…"

Yao sighed. "Ivan." He said in a hard tone just as a thick purple aura appeared around Ivan. "You all are children aru." Kiku sent his brother a sympathy-filled glance. Westerners can be very exasperating at times.

"I'm hungry." Ivan announced suddenly. "Francis, as the host, you should make us some food."

Francis turned to the Russian, about to object. Ivan smiled sweetly, very unsettling for a man of his size. The smile almost forced Francis to nod. "Well, I suppose I could do something—as the host." He laughed nervously.

"_Da_~ Wonderful." Ivan winked. A small heart shape floated towards Francis. He ducked and the heart hit the wall, leaving a small crater. America's mouth fell open in complete shock while France was taken back. No one else seemed to shocked by the release of pressure.

Francis made a step toward the hallway. "It might take a while for me to cook something, though—"

"I'll help," Britain offered, only to have all his world's country yell in one voice, "_NO_!" The wall of rejection nearly sent Britain to the floor. He stumbled back with his hand on a wall.

"You are never allowed in my kitchen—ever! It has a restraining order against you, get with in ten meters, and I will drag you to court!" Francis snapped.

"Oh, and if your court system is on strike—again?" Britain crossed his arms and smirked. Francis scowled before spinning around and marching over to his parallel world self. He grabbed France's wrist and started dragging him away.

"I'm need help and trust no one better than myself to do the job. Even one forced under British rule would have infinitely better tastes than _Angleterre_!" Francis snorted. He shot a sharp glare to Britain.

Alfred chuckled. "That's a burn, Eyebrows. Major burn."

Britain bristled. "Well, your cooking sucks, too, according to the rest of the world."

"Well, his is still better than yours," Francis paused at the door way. "At least some part of his cuisine was influenced by the better of the world—namely China and me."

Alfred open his mouth then shut it. He furrowed his brow once then smiled. "I'll take that as a compliment. Oh, and I keep forgetting to tell you this, Francis, Louisiana says you need to visits her more often—especially around Mardi Gras."

Francis rolled his eyes, muttering about being ditched in the middle of a parade last time—not that it was bad, though, with so many girls randomly pulling up their shirts…

France frowned, as Francis dragged him down the hall. "May I ask who 'Louisiana' is?"

Francis pushed open the door to the kitchen, grabbing a hair tie and pulling his hair back before tossing a tie to France.

"Louisiana is one of America's state. She was my territory a while back, before the Louisiana Purchase." Francis informed his alternate self as he pulled up his sleeves. "She is very nice—expect around Mardi Gras then she becomes…a crazy woman, to say the least."

"Ah, that Louisiana." France nodded, tugging his hair tight. "That territory didn't have a personification when I had it."

Francis shrugged, pulling out ingredients. "Louisiana did not appear until just before the purchase. The New World is a particularly strange place. Most of the states and providences did not appear until just before or just after they became part of whatever country they are now in." He began peeling a carrot. France moved over and grabbed the potatoes.

Francis took a breath.

"_Oui_?" France turned. "What is it?"

Francis turned his blue eyes to the window, to his beautiful city, Paris, then released a breath. "Gilbert—Prussia—said that your Holy Rome is still alive."

"Right, Angelterre said your Holy Rome had pasted on," France set the vegetable down and placed his hand on his counterpart's shoulder.

Francis swallowed once. "Did he tell you I was the one who kill him?" France nodded. "I…do not go thinking ill of me. They were Napoleon's orders, not mine."

"You…do not need to defend yourself for me. I understand. That is how it is with a nations, _non_?" France smiled. "We conquer each other and force the loser into servitude, not everyone…" He paused, a far away look in his eyes, "…lives…"

They worked in silence then on. A growing air of awkwardness grew thick around them, almost impairing the Frenchmen like a thick fog clinging to their clothing. Suddenly, Francis turned and left. France glanced up but continued to work, thankful for the reprieve. After a few moments, the Francis returned, a set of clothing folded in his arms.

He sent the clothing down. "I cannot work with my handsome body wearing such a ugly color. Go, change, shoo." Francis ushered his out the door into a vacant room on the other side of the hall.

*****Hetalia!*** **

A little while later, everyone was gathered around the living room, eating the fish stew the two Frances had cooked, discussing possible strategies, or arguing over silly matters of the past that they couldn't seem to get over—mostly the latter.

America turned his spoon over. A clam fell back into the bowl. This was not very productive. Maybe everyone here was so focused on their past, they couldn't fix his future.

"Wow, that looks yummy, America!" Italy's curl bobbed in front of America's eyes.

"I'll say!" Feli chirped from the American's other shoulder. "Big Brother Francis, Yao, and Mr. Saqid are all members of the gourmet food club, so they're cooking is always good. They won't let me join, though."

"Feliciano!" Francis smiled broadly, standing up.

"_Ciao_, everyone." The older Italian straightened up.

"_Si, ciao_," Italy said, taking America's stew. "I'm Italia Veneziano. Nice to meet you all."

With an annoyed look, America snatched his bowl back. "I already know you."

Italy stuck his tongue out. "Shush it, Mr. American-Grumpy-Pants."

"At least I'm not wearing a dress." America smirked.

"_Ore-sama _thinks the dress is very becoming." Gilbert announced loudly as he entered the room. He walked over to the couch and flopped down, taking up most of the room on the couch. "S'up, Francey? _Guten Abend {good evening}_." The Prussian then scanned the room once, his eyes dwelling on Britain, then America, then France. "Wow, guess Mini-Ita-chan wasn't lying about parallel world thing."

"You thought I lying?" Italy whimpered. His eyes started to water. Gilbert opened his mouth to speak when a frying pan flew through the air, slamming into the Prussian's skull.

"What the fuck, you frying pan witch?" Gilbert yelled towards the door.

Elizabeta hurried over to Italy and wrapped her arms around him. "It's okay, Ita-chan, Gilbert's just being a dumbass."

"You talk like that's a new occurrence." Roderich snorted from the doorway. Behind him, Germany sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Why does all the frankly weird things have to happen to his family? He wondered idly if these things would happened if he was human.

Germany headed over to assess his brother's newly received brain damaged as Francis began to wonder how all of these people got into his house when he locked the door.

*****Hetalia*****

He was laughing, not good. Spain swallowed silent. A heavy lump fell into his stomach. If _he_ was laughing, then that meant only two things: something wonderful happened or something awful happened. Sadly, Spain didn't think it was the former—it rarely was.

British Empire spun around then clicked his heels together once. "Well, well. I'm disappointed. How could you _fools_ not know it was not me." The words slipped through his teeth. "Are you truly that brain-dead?"

Prussia, the leader, stole a step foreword with his head bowed. "I'm sorry, British Empire." Spain winced inwardly as Prussia took the full brunt of British Empire's swing without even flinching.

"Are there anymore conspirators besides Italy Veneziano, America, and France?" British Empire demanded. Prussia remained quiet then shook his head, no. The empire narrowed his eyes. "Liar. Who else, Prussia. Tell me."

"There is no one else. Only those three. If there was, then I didn't seem them through the flash of light." Prussia stated, his voice steady. Another blow, to his side this time. The Prussian gasped, falling to his knees, arms wrapped tightly around himself.

"Who else?" British Empire growled. His foot slammed into Prussia's chin with so much force, the albino was thrown onto his back. British Empire placed his foot on Prussia's stomach. "Who are you protecting, Prussia? Who? _Who?_" The empire pushed down with his fell weight after every word.

The sickening sound of a cracking ribs echoed off the walls, bouncing around with the sounds of Prussia's gasps and cries of pain. Spain turned his gaze away. Even after years of war, of death and pain, after taking the lives of thousands, he still felt his stomach churn like a storm on the sea's horizon.

British Empire kicked the Prussian once more. He rolled to his side, coughing. Blood splattered on the ground. The Brit spun around, his back to the guard.

"I guess there were no more traitors then. Hmm." He rubbed his chin then sighed. "Horrible luck I seem to have. I lost my two favorites. I don't deserve this. All I did was go into the past to ensure my power." British Empire ran his hand through his hair.

The Guard members remained silence, waiting for orders to be dismissed. They dared not look at each other. The lie they wove might be undone then. It was on Prussia's orders that Holy Rome be left out of the story. He had already integrated Holy Roman Empire and came to the conclusion he didn't know about the fake British Empire or what he was planning. There was no need to for the real British Empire to know anything.

It took some pleading and under-the-table deals, but everyone agreed with him, even Switzerland, who had nothing to gain from Holy Rome being punished or killed. Spain wondered what Prussia had to do to protect his little brother to get the Swiss to agree.

He didn't like the images that came to mind.

British Empire smirked. "Do you want to see?"

"See what, sir?" Switzerland asked. After Prussia, he had the most power within the Guard: Prussia, Switzerland, Ottoman Empire, Sweden, Hungary, Austria, then Spain. The only Guard member with less authority than Spain was Holy Roman Empire.

"Your other selves, in that parallel world. I mean, they all are pretty pathetic, but do you must be at least a little curious, right?" The Brit smiled. Switzerland turned to the Guard members, looking for confirmation or not. No one moved, a yes. The Swiss nodded to the empire.

British Empire smirked then walked to the wall. He held his hand up flat and shouted a command. A swirling mass of energy appeared. The energy went left, then right, changed from a purple hue to a yellow to red to orange, like a rainbow swallowed by a whirlpool.

"Spain, come here."

The Spaniard hurried over. "Yes, British Empire?" In one swift move, the empire pulled out a few strands of hair. He tossed the hair then stepped back.

The portal seemed to jerk, then turn a greeny-color. A color Spain swore he'd seen before, but wasn't sure where. Then the energy calmed and started to clear.

"…stupid bastard!"

British Empire sneered. Spain felt his stomach twist. That voice.

There, on the wall, a man with darker brown hair and a strange curl jetting out of his part stood outside a shop. It was that just before sunset dark.

Spain felt his heart skip a beat. It was an older version, but that was him…his little tomato.

The man gritted his teeth.

"Sorry, Lovi! I can't find Feli anywhere." Another man, a few years other than the first, with messy brown hair jogged up.

"What did I tell you, tomato bastard?" The first man, "Lovi,' snapped. "My name is Lovino. Don't shorten it, jerk."

"But _Lovi_," The other man whined. "'Lovi' makes you seem cuter!"

Lovino grabbed the man by his collar and growled. "What are you implying, Antonio?"

Antonio paused, tilted his head, then grinned broadly, his eyes shining. Spain jerked. Eyes, that was the green color the energy turned. He had not seen his eyes that color since before they were cloudlied by British Empire's curse.

Antonio laughed, pulling Lovino's hands off of him. "It's not very cute when your mafia side comes out, Lovi."

"What did I just say, bas—"

The image faded away, leaving the energy a kaleidoscope of colors again, but now, every time that greeny-color, his eye color, popped up, Spain's dull eyes darted to it.

British Empire licked his lips. "Well, well. Romano grew in quiet a young man, didn't he? And you're not that bad looking either, Spain." Spain felt the empire's eyes run hungrily over his body. He turned to the other Guard members who were still standing.

"Ottoman." He said simply.

Spain headed back to his position in the line, careful to step over Prussia, while the Ottoman took his place. As with Spain, British Empire pulled out a few strands of Ottoman Empire's hair and tossed them in.

The energy yet again turned green, but not the same shade as Spain's…

A man in a green coat with a mask leaned over a bed. A man, no…he wasn't quiet a man yet, an older boy really, laid in the bed.

"Geez, I didn't know a table could do that much damage." The parallel Ottoman Empire said, rubbing his chin. "Your brother gonna be okay, Lukas?"

Norway nodded once. "Emil will be fine, Saqid. Right, little brother?"

Emil opened his eyes and half smiled. "Don't worry Pops: I'll live, but don't you have a flight to Istanbul?"

"Nah. That Greek asshole was on the same flight until an stopover in Rome. I couldn't last that long without getting into a fight. I already have Syria to deal with. " Saqid grumbled. "Stupid—"

It ended.

Under Ottoman's mask, he raised an eyebrow. What was going on there? 'Pops'? Did he have a child or something? God, he hoped not. Ottoman Empire had enough to worry about protecting with Greece and Egypt…no. His only concern was with _his_ world.

British Empire hummed. "You're next, Switzerland, dear." Spain saw Switzerland scowl slightly behind the Brit's back. The Swiss didn't like to be called 'dear' or 'sweetie' or anything of the like, especially by that overlord.

Switzerland pulled out his hair and held it out. British Empire tossed it. A repeat.

The parallel Switzerland sat outside on a porch, cleaning a rifle. He held the gun to his shoulder and took aim at something before lowing it and adjusting the sites.

"Big brother!" A little girl with Switzerland's same haircut, big blue-green eyes, and a ribbon in her hair walked out of the house.

"_Ja_, Lili?" The Swiss did not look up from his cleaning.

"Vash, may I go home now to Vaduz ?" Lili asked.

Vash's head jerked up, and he sent his jaw. "No. It's dangerous with that fake Britain running around making a muck. Until he is caught or dead in the ground, you are staying here I can keep an eye on you." Lili looked like she wanted to say something, to protest her older brother's words, but she shut her mouth and nodded.

"Alright, big brother. I know you will protect me," She smiled; Vash blushed slightly. "Do you want me to go cook something?" The Swiss nodded with his eyes on the Alps in the distance. Then it ended.

British Empire licked his lips. "How sickeningly sweet, don't you think, Switzerland?"

"No. Disgusting." Switzerland grumbled, heading back.

"If you say so. Hungary, let's do you next."

Hair pulled…tossed…and the energy turned green.

"Are you done beating him into a pulp, yet, Elizabeta?" the other world's Austria asked. In front of him was a scene that had not played out in many years in British Empire's world: Hungary had her foot on Prussia's back, a frying pan in her hand and a murderous glint in her eye.

"Shut up, Rodderich! Some sissy girl is not beating me!" The Prussian yelled, wailing his arms. "West, why aren't you helping me? I'm your brother!"

A tall man with slicked back hair and blue eyes, West, sighed, "Because, Gilbert, I'm not an idiot."

"You suck, _Bruder!" _Gilbert cried. "Fail as a little brother, Ludwig, not helping me!"

"Am I?" West, Ludwig, commented, meeting Gilbert's red eyes. The man looked like he wanted to saw something but kept his mouth shut. Gilbert let out a sigh.

"Yeah, sorry about. Get off, Liz. I don't wanna play anymore."

Elizabeta frowned but stepped off. Gilbert stood, dusting himself off. "I'm gonna find Francis—or at least his wine cellar. I need a drink." He ran his hand through his hair, sulking out of the room.

Ludwig let out a breath through his nose. "I'm going to find Feliciano and Mini-Italy." He said before following his brother's example and leaving.

Elizabeta leaned against a wall beside the Austrian, gripping her frying pan tightly. "Why do I feel that was about The Wall…?"

Roderich turned his head, looking out the window. "How would you feel if you're only alive because your little brother split his own body in half so you could live after being dissolved? After all his other brothers, Ludwig is all Gilbert has left."

"He owes Germany everything, too, but," The woman made a face of annoyance, "too bad Prussia's a real dick."

"_Ja."_

British Empire's chuckle filled the room. "Oh my. Prussia's not a country is that world? Oh, strange. No stranger than Holy Rome being dead, though."

"Holy Rome's…dead…?" Prussia whispered from the floor. A line of blood rolled down his face into his eye. His voiced was dull and heavy sounding.

The empire turned. "Still with us, huh? Yes. I did some research while I was there. Holy Roman Empire died—but France's hand none the less! All of your brothers are dead there. That 'Ludwig' is all that's left. Apparently all your brothers _retired _soon after his birth. The only children of Germania left are you, Austria, Switzerland, and that Germany fellow."** (*)**

Prussia's face didn't change, but Spain did see a low breath escape his body.

That was what British Empire did: he used words and threats to crawl under your skin, slowly taking control by contorting your fears and cares for others until your old self is nearly gone and you are nothing but his puppet.

British Empire's eyes gleamed. "All right then. Guard dismissed." Slowly, their minds filled with thoughts of their parallel selves, of the connection, and the envy, the Guard, save Prussia, trudged towards the door.

"Spain, come here." The empire's voice made shudders slither up and down Spain's back. Steeling himself, Spain turned and marched back. He fell to one knee.

"Yes, British Empire?"

British Empire smirked. "Spain, my old friend, you remember why you're in the Guard don't you?"

The brunette nodded once. "For Belgium and Netherlands and Romano's protection."

The empire turned, hummed, then spoke. "I'm glad you remember. Who knows would could befall those three if you were to _forget_. That is not why I need you here, though…You and Prussia, I have a little assignment for you two."

Spain felt his stomach drop as the puppet master began to manipulate his strings.

**I didn't realize this until now, but most of the Guard have green eyes…**

**I REALLY need to stop writing stuff after the sun goes down! It turns to crappppp! LATIVAAAAA! (XD)**

**Also, news. Since this story is doing pretty well, I've decided to increase my reviews a little by having a CONTEST going. The person who posts the 100****th**** review will receive a free ONE-SHOT from me, any shipping (even if I don't like it), any world (2p, high school AU, Nyotalia, Nekotalia, etc), just give me the basics or just the ship and let me run WILD (I'm not writing lemons though. I draw the line there).**

**Of course, there are rules. A) The reviewer has to have an account so I can contact them. (sorry my wonderful anonymous reviews. =C ) B) The review has to be for this chapter or the chapters after this unless the person is like me and reviews EVERY chapter of a fic, then I shall allow it. C) If the review is a flame, don't expect to win. **

**Good luck!**

**(*) Usually, I'd lump Liechtenstein up with those guys (the whole sister to Switzerland, and she WAS apart of the German Confederation….****and the Holy Roman Empire****.) I'm going with the ones in Germania's thought-bubble from that Christmas request strip this time (if you don't know what I mean, go through the Christmas specials; you'll find it eventually.) but…yeah in British Empire's world, Lichtenstein doesn't exist…or something.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: ALLLL the way back in Chapter 1.**

**In advance, I apologize for the suckiness of this chapter. I have one-too-many characters, and when that happens…oh boy, the chapters get talkie…DX**

Alfred stuck out his tongue. "Francis, your coffee sucks in the worse way possible."

Francis rolled his eyes. "Put sugar in it or something. You like sweets."

"Coffee not suppose to have sugar; It's suppose to be black and bitter." The America grumbled, taking another sip while muttering about European coffee. At the table, some other countries were still half asleep. Everyone decided last night it was too late for anyone to make a logical plan and headed off to claim one of Francis' guest rooms (or in Francis' room itself as was offered).

Still groggy from the time change, Yao wondered in, rubbing his eyes with his oversized sleeve. He pulled out the only empty chair, the one next to Ivan, and sat. Yao propped his chin up with his hand. The hair on the back of his neck pricked up.

"Good morning, Comrade Yao," Ivan smiled sweetly, leaning over Yao. Yao swallowed the lump in his throat. He could rarely tell if Ivan was being generally nice or if he had a screw loose again. Yao nodded.

Italy skipped into the kitchen cheerfully. "Hello, everyone! How are you all?" He received a group grunt from everyone save Ivan.

"Good morning, Little Italy." Ivan chirped. "You are very peppy, da?"

"_Si_." Italy said.

"Italy, be peppy somewhere else, would you?" America asked, pushing past the Italian. "It's too damn early."

Italy frowned. "What pooped in your hair?"

*****Hetalia*****

Spain's stomach twisted.

"Ready, Spain." Prussia asked.

"Yes." The Spaniard clenched his eyes shut. For Romano, for Netherlands, for Belgium, For Romano, for Netherlands, for Belgium…

"Alright." Prussia reached into the bag British Empire gave him and held up a small toy-like item between his fingers. He set it down before nodding to Spain. Spain walked over and poured water out on the figure.

The item shook and began to expand. Soon a large creature with the squat body of a bulldog, the jaws of a lion, and the tail of a crocodile with deep red eyes appeared.

"Hellhound!" Prussia raised his finger and pointed at the wildness behind them. "Attack."

******Hetalia******

Francis has heard some pretty stupid arguments in all his years—not that he was old or anything—but this by far one of the stupidest.

"How can we really know the chicken wanted to cross the road?" Feliciano asked. "What if he was forced? I've seen lots of people forced into doing things: walk with a cinderblock around their neck into the canals, black mail another mob boss, marriage."

Francis decided it was best for him to step in. He opened his mouth when, instead, someone cell phone loudly went off with a resounding 'I AM FUCKING RINGING! PICK ME UP!'

Gilbert pulled out his phone. "Hmm, hey it's Birdie." Gilbert pursed his lips and muttered "Where am I? Sent a picture?" Smirking, the Prussian jumped to his feet, grabbed Italy send him beside Francis and pushed his head between the two of them. He held the phone out. "Say cheese, you two."

"Cheese?" Italy looked around as the camera flashed.

Gilbert hummed, sending the picture with the accompanying, "At Francis's house with a bunch-a other nations watching the sexual tension rise—wish you were here."

"What was that all about, _bruder?_" Ludwig asked.

"Hmm? Oh just Matthew sending crazy text about my location like a worry housewife." Prussia said.

"Hey, what are you saying about my bro? He might be a wussy, but he's not a housewife." Alfred said. "I mean, he can be somewhat badass if he wants."

"Keh, sorry to be the barer of bad news, Alfred, but if Birdie was gay, he'd be the one on bottom, no ifs, ands, or buts!" Gilbert cackled. Alfred opened his mouth to protest then shut it.

"Yeah," The American rubbed his chine and nodded, "You have a point there." All at once, everyone in the room sweat dropped, and all of the Europeans muttered, 'stupid American.'

Alfred opened his mouth to speak when his phone went off. He pursed his lips and looked at it. "You may have a point on the worried house wife." He clicked a button. "Hello, Bro-ah?"

"_Alfred! Thank Maple! _GAH!"

Alfred's brown furrowed. "Canadia, you alright, man?" The other nations paused in what they were doing to watch the American.

"_No, I was—ah!—attacked."_

Alfred jumped to his feet. "Attacked!? Who the fuck attacked you?"

"Mathieu was attacked?" Francis' eyes widened.

"_Gak…ouch…S-Spain…and P-Prussia…"_

"Spain and Prussia?" Alfred pursed his lips. "Matthew, you've flipped a shit, you know that? I mean, Gilbert's been right here for hours—and it's not like he has an army too attack with." Said army-less nation glared.

"_I don't get it…either, but it was them! I saw them—"_

"And you were wearing Alberta at this time, right?" (*)

"_Alfred, shut up, eh! That's not just why I'm calling—you were attacked to. Washington, Oregon, and Alaska were—are—being attacked."_

"Um, no dude, they're not. I know how it feel to be attacked. I mean, hello, I've gotten into how many wars because of an attack on the home front?" Alfred laughed. He perched the phone between his shoulder and his cheek, rolling up his sleeve. "I mean, I'm looking at my arm right now and—Holy shit!"

A long, haggard gash run the length of the America's arm. Blotchy red rash-looking marks coated the American's arm up to his elbow. Alfred's eyes widen, and he crumbled to his knees. A sheering pain flared through his body.

The phone fell onto the table.

"_Oh, you looked at it, didn't you?"_

Kiku crouched down near Alfred, as Yao darted off in search bandages. Gilbert leaned over the table and scooped up the phone.

"Mattie, it's Gilbert. What the fuck happened?"

"_Gil…ouch!…I'm happy it's not really you attacking me…sure looks like you thou…oooh…"_

Gilbert looked at the phone worriedly. "Yo, Birdie? Please tell me you're not dead."

"_Sor…ry…Whoever is doing this, they are burning forests and towns, killing people. But they are sticking to the coast lines. Gah! Dammit! I think they just got Whitehorse."_

Gilbert hear a hacking cough then silence. He swallowed. "B-Birdie? Mattie? Shit."

***HETALIA!****

Matthew's head spun and the phone slipped from his grip. He slumped to the ground, gripping his chest. Oh, Maple, it hurt. He should have tried to warn Alfred that the wound only hurts when he looks at it. Not that it mattered. Alfred would not have shut up long enough for him to say it.

He rubbed his temples. Maple, what was going on?

***Hetalia!***

Alfred rubbed his temples. Sweet democracy, what was going on? "Oh fuck. Times like this I wish I wasn't a nation—when maybe pain killers would work better." He rested his head against the cool airplane window.

In the seat two up from the American, France and Alternate America huddled closer to each other.

"Man was not met to fly," France muttered.

"Not in a big metal machine, at least." America grumbled. Italy turn in his seat and grinned broadly.

"Ve~ I like it! Can I go outside, Feliciano?" Italy asked.

"No unless you wanna get suck out into the open air," Gilbert commented before Feliciano could response.

"I heard Russia jumped out of a plan once." Feli chirped.

"Yes, and broke his spine," Britain grumbled irritably. After Matthew's call and while Yao and Francis bandaged up Alfred, Ludwig received a phone call from his boss.

As he held the phone to his ear, the other nations heard a loud, and very angry man yell, "WHERE IS THAT PEST OF A BROTHER OF YOURS!" Ludwig winced holding the phone away while his boss wove more and more swears into his yelling.

"Ha! Your boss is pissed!" Alfred laughed, only to regret it, wincing.

Gilbert marched over and snatched the phone from his brother's hand. "Who are you calling a pest?!"

"_Herr Preußen (Mr. Prussia!)_" The German man gasped. "Y-you can't be there! You're in British Columbia."

"I'm not. What is going on?" Gilbert shouted into the phone.

"But…but…they confirmed it…the news has footage of you and Spain attacking Whitehorse…"

"Don't believe everything you see, dumbass."

"_Bruder!_" Ludwig snapped. Gilbert tossed the phone back. The albino darted out of the room to the living room. He scooped up the TV and flipped from a French soup opera to a international news channel.

The scene sent shivers down even the Prussian's spine. Fire, eating up everything in its path, tore through a forest of thickly packed evergreen trees. It was near impossible to tell where exactly the forest was located, the Northwest of the US or Canada, but either way, soon there would be little left of the forest.

The screen changed to a reporter standing outside a city.

"That shot was an aerial view of much of the forest in Washington State, in the Northwest of the United States," The reporter said. "That scene of horrid has been repeated in not only the other forests on the coasts of North America by ports and towns as well. The death total is near impossible to fathom."

The reporter gestured to the city behind. "I'm standing in front of the American city of Juno, Alaska. On the path of rampage the attackers are current taking, this is their next purposed target." The reporter took a few steps to the side.

A girl with while black hair and tan skin stood. Her back taunt and black eyes sharp. In her profile, it was clear her nose was quiet prominent on her face.

"I have here the personification of Alaska." The reporter stuck the microphone out. Alaska blinked and turned.

"What do you plan to do when the attackers come, Ms. Alaska."

The girl smiled proudly. "Well, isn't it clear? _My obygrali ikh na zemlyu_! We beat them to the ground!(**)"

"Beat them to the ground?" The reporter's eyebrow twitched.

"Yeah. When they get here, we shoot 'em fulla lead." Alaska pulled out a pistol and cocked it. "No problems, _da_?"

"You aren't a supporter of gun control are you?" The reported mumbled. Before Alaska could respond, the ground shook. The reporter stumble, ungracefully, to the ground. Smoke billowed from the road, hitting them. Alaska held up her arms to cover her face. She peeked out and smirked.

"'Bout time you got here, you…hey…" Alaska's tight battle ready pose slacked. "Aren't you…" Before she could finished a figure ran at the girl. Before the state could fire off even a shot, her gun was knocked from her hand.

From there the smoke covered the scene. For a long, long moment, grunts and cries and swear echoed off the nearby buildings, but it was impossible to tell from whom the each sound came.

Sudden, a figure came stumbling out of the smoke.

Alaska panted. Her face was covered with scrapes and her coat was dotted with blood. A gash in her pant leg relieved a deep cut on her hip.

"Wow, you two are some pretty nasty work—and that's saying something! I lived at Russia's house during the USSR!" She chuckled darkly. "I've seen some pretty scary shit there." Her smile faded. "_Chto vy zhdete? (What are you waiting for?) _Come out here and fight like an honest warriors!"

Her words were a spur for the attacker, or attackers as it were. Slowly, three figures walked out of the smoke, who humanoid and one almost bear-like.

Alaska's voice was colder than her winters as she spoke, "Why are you attacking us? Do you really want to drag the world into World War III, Spain and Prussia?"

Prussia snorted out of his nose. Spain didn't meet her eyes and adjusted his axe. The monster behind them pawed at the ground, waiting to strike the state.

"Why are you doing this?" Alaska repeated. "Where did you get that thing?"

Prussia cackled. "Some people pissed off Mr. British Empire, and as his loyal dogs, we have to do what our master says." A wicked smile crossed the Prussian's face he turned to Spain. "The master said 'attack,' right, Spain?"

Spain nodded. Before Alaska could react, the Spaniard ran at her. He raised his axe and slashed it down the girl's front. She gasped, tumbling back into the ground with blood spurting from her body.

"_Kesesesesese_…" Prussia chuckled. "Now, let's get ride of this eyesore of a town." He threw his arm out and the creature ran forward. With one sweep of it's claws, the camera was smashed; the screen went to static.

Alfred leaned against the door frame, numb with shock. "A-Alaska…Mariya…"

Italy whimpered, ducking behind Lugwig. "The Guard's here, the Guard's here! Eeek!"

"So this was British Empire's doing, aru?" Yao asked softly.

France nodded. "The Guard are his dogs, like Prussia said."

"And they attacked the Hellhound on the land too. What's why you didn't noticed it before, Alfred," America said. "It's wounds only hurt once they are acknowledged—and they hurt like Hell for a while."

"You don't say…" Alfred hissed, staggering out the room.

"Ah! Alfred-san, what are you doing?" Kiku fretted.

"I'm getting a plane ticket and heading to check on my states, what else?" He uttered. "I'm sorry. Fix this problem yourself."

*****Hetalia*****

**=U Did he just say that?! The Hero's not suppose to do that! Anyway, here's the next chapter. I hoped you liked it,.**

**(*) I read in some Fanfiction somewhere that Canada's glasses were Alberta and liked the idea. :-)**

**(**) While a lot of Alaska's residents speak English, 14% or so percent speak something other than English (The top three other languages being Yupik, Spanish, Tagalo.) BUT I don't want to look up a translator for those, so here, Alaska's speech is peppered with Russian because she lived at Russia's house for a long time. =3**

**"Alaska State Language." . N.p. Web. 26 Jan**


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer…Chapter 1.**

Britain felt his stomach twist as the plane landed and the group of countries walked through the air port. They were alone, no people bustling about attempting to find a place to sit or catch their flights. No people manning the sundry of food places. Not even secretary guards were to be found wandering the airport. But, of course, that was to be expected, for a closed airport.

Britain glanced behind him. Their numbers had dwindled down to just Alfred, America, France, Francis, Prussia, Feliciano, Germany, and Italy; the rest left to prepare themselves incase worse came to worse.

"There he is! _Alfred_!"

"Huh?" Alfred turned, a confused looked on his face, when two girls tackled him, causing him to yelp. Hearing the cry of pain, the girls jumped back, finally giving Britain time too look over them.

One of the girl was a gangly creature with dark green eyes. Her brown hair was pulled back into a braid. But what really stole Britain's attention was her clothing. Short, _short _sport shorts and a tank top, and then, her socks. The girl's socks went all the way up to her mid-thigh, only a small sliver of her olive skin peeked between the hem of the shorts and the top of the socks.

The other one was a bigger girl with a curvy figure, dark skin, and black eyes. Her black hair was all frizz and curls down to the end past her shoulders with her bangs pulled back. She wore a short-sleeve, v-neck pink shirt and knee length skirt.

"Sorry," Sock-girl smiled uneasily, her mouth reminded Britain of Belgium's, like a cat's lips. "You must be hurt after all that. My bad."

"S'okay," Alfred said with a forced smile. "What doesn't kill us makes us stronger, you know."

"I still feel bad. Next time you come to my house, I'll set you up with nice beach holiday," She gave a thumbs up.

"You're beaches are crowded and full of old people." The darker girl snorted. "So, you'd better come to my home, Alfred." Sock-girl turned and stood on her tip-toes so she was looking down at the other. She gritted her teeth and glared while the other smirked.

Suddenly, Francis stepped forward. "I have a comprise."

The girl's paused and looked over. The darker-skinned girl's eyes shone. "I'll come visit, Ms. Louisiana, instead."

"Francis!" Louisiana bound over and hugged him. "Long time, no see. I'll hold you to that offer, you know. Mardi Gras is coming soon." She elbowed the man. "And you and I both know you love the parades." The other girl opened her mouth to speak when her eyes landed on Alternate America and France. She walked over and tapped Louisiana on the shoulders and pointed.

"You wanna invite them, too?" Sock-girl asked lazily.

"_Mon Deiu!" _Louisiana gasped. The two girl pushed past the other world France. Sock-girl knelt down next to Mini-Italy and started petting his head while Louisiana leaned over, eye-to-boob with Alternate America.

"Ah! He's so cute!" The two girls cooed.

"This one looks like Alfred only not. You're so cute!" Louisiana hugged America tightly, squeezing the boy between her breasts. "Adorable! I just want to eat him up! Or better, yet!" She released American and put her hands on his shoulders. "I'll make you some gumbo, how's that sound?"

"G-gumbo?" America repeated.

"Oh, yes! It's my best dish! It's a stew with fish and rice and, of course, it has okra in it!" Louisiana chirped. "Only real tough men can handle my home-made gumbo. I mean Alfred can barely stomach it; it's so spicy." She jabbed her thumb at the wounded nation, who responded with a 'what?' expression.

Sock-girl laughed, "Your motherly side is kicking in, Louis."

"Like you haven't been fawning over that little kiddo for just as long as I have been with this guy!"

She stuck her tongue out. "Oh, shut up. Besides, this kid is adorable. What is your name, little cutie?"

"Italy Venezaino." Italy chirped.

"Wait…" The socked girl paused, her hand mid-pet. "What?"

"Yeah, girls," Alfred sighed, "listen, there is an alternate world, and thanks to this limey bastard's screw-up, the guy who attacked our World Meeting and the one who sent Spain and Prussia to attack me is here in this world. That guy," He pointed to France, "is that world's France." His finger moved to Italy. "Mini-Italy from they world. And lastly, the kid you're cuddling, Louis, is the alternate me."

Louisiana and Sock-girl blinked, then continued their cooing over the younger versions of Alfred and Italy, respectively.

"Oh, I love Italian accents!" Sock-girl grinned. "I don't speak Italian, but enough people from Cuba's place come to mine so I can speak Spanish. _Hola._ _Mi llama Florida. Como esta?_" (*)

"Ah, Florida, don't confuse the kid," Louisiana snorted. "Just cause you speak Spanish doesn't mean everyone does."

"French, Spanish, Italian, all from Indo-European branch of language, one of the Romance-y family things where the nouns and verbs gotta match with both number and gender, so nah!" Florida wrapped her long arms around Italy.

"For a state full of old folks and drunk teenagers, you sure have a sharp tongue." Louisiana smirked

Instead of responding in words, the Floridian raised her middle finger, all while hugging Italy.

*****Hetalia*****

The group of nations, and the two states, stood outside a large, plain building. Florida pushed open the door. Unlike the plain, boring outside, the inside was a mess of activity. People hurrying about, carrying food, boxes, tables, and a sundry of items. People yelled at each other, and all in the span of about four minutes, at least three places declared then undeclared war on each other. Swears and curse filled the room.

A girl with long, straight black hair and caramel-color skin paused, being the first to take notice of the new group to enter the room.

"Alfred!" She smiled, shoving her box to another boy. She darted over. "Oh, thank goodness! I'm so happy!" She clasped her hands in front of the feather print on her red shirt.

"Yeah, and you won't believe that is going on, either!" Louisiana chirped.

The girl opened her mouth only to be cut off.

"I sure as Hell would like to. Pray tell, explain it, Alfred." voice with a strong southern accent shouted. All at once the shouting, war declaring, moving, jabbering, and tiffs ended. All eyes turned to the group, then a stampede headed towards them.

Standing on the fridge of the group, just outside the door, America was thankful that he was near the back of the group. All those people made him feel uncomfortable.

"Hmm? What's goin' on here?"

America stiffened and looked back. A brunette girl with her hair pulled into a ponytail on the side of her head with a set of beads. Some of her bangs could not be pulled into the ponytail and framed half her face. She had slightly thicker eyes brow over her dark brown eyes and wore a loose, long-sleeve shirt that exposed her belly with a pair of cut offs attached to set of jean suspenders. **(**)**

"Um, ah, um." America fumbled.

"Well, I don't care, they're just blocking the door, and Alb—I mean Greg." She corrected herself quickly, blushing. "I mean Greg, who is from Alabama, said to go get this table, and the st—people—who were suppose to help ditched me." She bit her lip then smiled. "You look like a strong man, help me take this around, would you?"

"Um, okay, ma'am," America nodded, running back of the table.

"Did you just call me 'ma'am'?" She stuck her tongue out. "I'm ain't that old. I'm Leona, Leona Marguerite."

America blushed. Never insult a woman on her age, even he knew that! "Oh! Sorry, m—Leona."

"Alright, cutie. Count o' three lift. One, two, three!"

***Hetalia!***

A male with chin length blond hair pulled back into a pony tail grunted in announce. His bangs were parted to the side where a flame-shaped cowlick stuck up and part of them curled around his cheek.

He spun around to the crowd of gawking and questioning people behind him. "Get back to work, ya'll! We are still in a crisis!" Grumbling and glaring, the crowd dispersed. The boy gave a sharp nod.

"Wow, Alabama, that was kinda mean, don't you think?" Louisiana rolled her eyes.

"Quiet you," He looked like he wanted to add something else, an insult, but held his tongue. "You two should go be helping, too. Missouri, New York, and Massachusetts went to get a table, but knowing those three, they'll need more help, so go be useful."

With an offended look, Florida spat. "Whatever. Com'n Louis. We don't need the bigot." She grabbed Louisiana's hand and dragged her off.

"_Tch_. Girls these days have no respect for men. Letting them vote was a bad idea." He snorted. France leaned over and tapped Francis's shoulder with a questioning look. Francis shrugged. He never knew Alabama all that well. He'd only met him on one or two occasions, half of which were during Alfred's Civil War.

"That was a little mean, Greg." Alfred stated. "You can be a really ass. I wonder how'd you be if you won the Civil War."

"Ah, shush and start explainin', ya damn Unionist." Alabama growled, an irate look on his face. Yes, Francis only met Alabama on one or two occasions, half of which when Alabama was the Confederate States of America.

*****Hetalia*****

Leona huffed, whipping the sweat from her brow. "Wow, that table was heavy! Thanks for the help, cutie." She winked. America nodded.

"Hey, cutie, how about you and me get some grub? There should be a kitchen around her—and I make a mean cashew chicken." The girl smirked proudly.

"Oh," He chewed his lip. He should be getting back. Before America could response, his stomach growled. Leona grinned and put her hand on the boy's back, leading him away.

**How many people could figure out which state was which before they were told? (if you don't actually live in the US, and you got this right, cookies to you!) I don't really know the stereotypes of a lot of the states (and the depending on where you are IN the state, the stereotype can be quiet different, even among towns!)**

**Yes, I totally put my OC's here! MWAHAHAHAHA! Don't worry, they plan no major part….mostly. ^^; don't worry, they aren't seem much after this and the next chapter.**

**Also, I mean no offense to those who live in Alabama for making my Alabama OC the former US Confederacy. ^^; I just needed a Southern state I knew broke away from the Union. Really, Greg's a nice guy…he just…a right-wing republican. ^^;**

**(*) I am proud to say I did not need a translator for that. ;) (Read: It's probably wrong!)**

**(**) I read somewhere that the use of words like pants and suspenders and underwear all have different meaning in the UK, so I guess descriptions like this must conjure much different images than for us in the US, huh? XD (The random things I know…)**


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